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/ 



INCIDENTS 

IN THE 

LIFE 

OF 



MILTON W. STREETER, 

THE JEALOUS AND INFATUATED MURDERER, 

WHO MURDERED HIS YOUNG AND 

BEAUTIFUL WIFE, 

ELVIRA W. STREETER, 



AT SOUTHBRIDGE, MASS., OCTOBER 23, 1848: CONTAINING ALi 
THE INTERESTING INCIDENTS OF HIS LIFE ALL THE PAR- 
TICULARS OF THE MURDER HIS TRIAL, WHICH 

OCCURRED IN JUNE, 1849, SENTENCE, &C. 



" Oh blood ! oh murder t loud she cr'eth I 
Shrieks of terror wildly rise ; 
These, the phrenzied man defieth!— 
Reft are now the tenderest ties." 



PUBLISHED BY EL F. -TINGLET. 



A, W, PEARCE, PRINTER, PAWTUCKET, R. L 







Entered according to Act of Congress, in'the year 1850, by 

HOSEA F. TINGLEY, 
In 4he Clerk's Office of the District Court of Rhode Island. 



CONTENTS. 



CHAPTER I. 

Parentage— birth-^-injury — residence in Vermont* 

CHAPf EH II. 

Changes of residence — sickness— Quinebaug — Southbridg^ 

CHAPTER III, 

Central Mill — injuries— idle habits^melancholy* 

CHAPTER IV, 

Elvira W. Houghton— her personal appearance at the age bt 
sixteen—residence — habits — learns the trade of dress-aiakeis 
She goes to Central Village, Southbridge— her admirers. 

CHAPTER V. 

Streeter's first acquaintance with Miss Hough ton^-the" remarka= 
ble circumstances which led to it — he becomes Miss H ? s 
suitor— '-his proposal of marriage — Miss H. accepts it with, 
hesitation- — Miss H. regrets her rash vow— Streeter urges big 
suit, and is again accepted=^-the nuptial day set — Miss H. 
again rejects Streeter, on the day of their marriage — Street 
ers entreaties-^Miss H ? s father intercedes with her in Street- 
er's behalf — Miss H. Consents — Streeter's marriage. 

CHAPTER Vli 

Curious remarks upon Streeter "s marriage,- by certain individu- 
als in his neighborhood — Mrs. Streeter s fondness for attending' 
balls — her husband's opposition^-his jealousy of H. Beacon — a 
his threats and bad treatment of his wife— unhappy discover 
ry— married life* 

CHAPTER til, 

Columbia Villager-its people — Streeter's jealousy — abuse df 
his wife-=~she resolves to make complaint before a magi** 
trate-^her stratagem to deceive her husband* 



CHAPTER VIII, 

Mrs. Sfreeter makes her complaint — Warrant issued by thV 
magistrate for Streeter's apprehension — his arrest — his ap- 
pearance in Court — proposed separation — Full particulars of 
the murder of Mrs. Streeter — Streeter attempts to commit 

suicide. 

i 

CHAPTER IX. 

Interview between Streeter and his Father, 'after the murder — 
Streeter permitted to view the remains of his wife, on the 
day of. her interment — an exciting scene— Mrs. Streeter's 
funeral — Streeter's trial — conviction — sentence — commutation 
of sentence — phrenological description — conclusion. 



CHAPTER I. 

Parentage — birth — injury — residence in Vermont. 

Ox a fine farm situated in the romantic town of Doug-- 
las, Worcester Co. Mass., a young couple, who had just 
entered the marriage relations, commenced a new era in 
their course of life. Mr. Asa Streeter a native of that 
town had married Miss Abigail H. Tracy, of Worcester, 
who thenceforward became Mrs. Streeter. Young, ac- 
tive and enterprising, this couple, united in heart as well 
as hand, rejoiced in the present, and looked with gladness 
to the undeveloped future. The past had been fruitful of 
good in the formation of habits of virtue and integrity. 
The lessons they had received in the days of childhood 
and youth, were not lost upon their subsequent lives. Mr. 
Streeter acquired, and long enjoyed^ the reputation of a 
quiet, inoffensive man, of industrious habits and unques- 
tioned integrity, intelligent, kind and faithful. His young 
companion possessed a different temperament. Ardent 
and impulsive, and sometimes even impetuous, she was- 
less judicious than her husband in conducting her domes- 
tic affairs; and had less of that stern self-control* and- win- 
ning submissiveness which constitute a distinguished ex- 
cellence of her sex. Still she was faithful and- affection- 
ate, and, generally, well fitted to perform^ her part in the 
various duties, and bear a share of the burdens, in all the 
vicissitudes of life. 

The first few months of their married life passed fleetly 
away, like the spirit of an * u enchanted cattle." The 
dream of happiness which so* often occupies the waking 
hours of the young, was-* convened, in their case, into a 
blissful reality. The; hours and days ran by like so many 
timid spirits, aiiai**U«' to hide themselves in t he un fat homed 
past. No- avouitiun is so calculated to afford en joy man t 



8 

in the early period of married life, as that of agriculture. 
Necessarily separated, more or less, from the busy world, 
the youthful pair found their enjoyment in each others' so- 
ciety. Busied in gathering the treasures of Providence 
out of the bosom of the earth, like gold from the mines, 
their time was spent pleasantly and usefully ia the mutual 
effort to render each other happy. 

The summer had come and gone ; autumn had strewn 
its fruit and cast its leaves, and then disappeared ; winter 
had spread its mantle, enjoyed its sleep, and then risen 
and departed ; and spring had again approached with its 
smiles and its sunshine, to open the bud, bring out the 
young leaf, expand the flower, and prepare the earth for 
the fruit and the blessings of another harvest moon. The 
most charming month in all the year had come, dancing 
after April showers and arrayed in its gorgeous attire, like 
a maid for the bridal. The perfumery of nature's own 
toilet, so grateful to the senses, filled the whole air. And 
the teeming population of the earth began to move with 
new life, and with smiles and gayety answering to the 
loveliness of the vernal month. 

I* And all were free and wandering, 
And all exclaimed to all they met, 
That never did the summer bring 
So gay a feast of roses yet." 

In the very midst of these enchantments, another im- 
mortal appeared — another pledge of virtuous affection was 
born — the young wife presented her husband with a trans- 
cript of himself ; and they became parents. It was their 
first child, born on the 28th of May, 1820, and he was 
named Milton Whipple Streeter. Little did those parents 
then think, as they gazed upon him, that the little harm- 
less babe bore about him the elements of a murderer ! — 
Little did they imagine that future years would rend their 
hearts with the keenest agony from the terrible deed of 
blood which their child would commit ! No one can un- 
fold the pages of the future ; and it is well that we cannot. 
The weight of the future bearing upon the present might 



crush the spirit. The mother, as she gazes fondly upon 
her dear infant so fresh and so promising, will start with 
terror as she thinks for a moment what may be its terrible 
fate. But God, for her sake, allows her not, as she looks 
towards the vista of its coining years, to read its destiny. 
She would shrink from the mighty task of toil and of trial 
through which she must pass in the voyage of life. 

But that lovely infant might not have been born a mur- 
derer — might not have enclosed, in its moral nature, a 
principle of brutal outrage upon the dearest relations of 
life. Adventitious circumstances, occurring in infancy, or 
even later in life, sometimes exert a controlling influence 
over the whole period of individual existence. It might 
have been so with that young spirit. 

Days and months, golden winged, flew quickly past. 
Joy filled the measure of the parents, and seemed to light- 
en their labor, as they watched the developments of fu- 
ture manhood in their first born child. 

Meantime they exchanged the peaceful avocations of 
farming for the din and confusion of a cotton factory. 
Obliged to gain a livelihood by their own industry, they 
sought the surest and most productive labor. Living in a 
town bordering upon the residence and business pursuits 
of Mr. Slater, so celebrated in the early history of cotton 
manufacturing in this country, they had good opportuni- 
ties to enter upon that department of labor and avail 
themselves of its profits. 

It is scarcely possible to imagine what changes have 
come over the splendid day-dream of American 'manufac- 
tures within the last thirty years ! The present affords a 
living and practical interpretation of what was merely 
dreamed by the early pioneers in this wonderful enters 
prise ! The simple machinery of other years has given 
place to " improvements/' and change after change has 
followed, in rapid succession, until scarcely a vestige re- 
mains to connect the past with the present. The count- 
less wheels and spindles, of every shape and grade that 
now form the complete machine, seem, while in motion, 
like a thing of life, grinding and masticating the raw ma* 



10 

fee rial, and' then sending forth the delicate fabric, like a 
silk-worm weaving the woof of her winding sheet, in prep- 
aration (or egress into a higher life. But the people com- 
posing the mass of operatives, have remained compara- 
tively unchanged. Vastly increased in numbers, they tiili 
retain their high character for integrity, virtue and intelli- 
gence. Despised by the proud, and shunned by the tin- 
selled devotees of wealth and fashion, they form a most 
important link in the great chain of a nation's prosperity, 
and occupy a most important position in the industrial 
pursuits of a great' people. 

The second year of the infant Milton was drawing to its 
close. The dominion of winter had begun to yield to the 
imperious demands of a sun begirt with smiles and ad- 
vancing to its northern goal: 'The vernal equinox had 
itfst passed. The mother, engrossed with the cares and 
duties of domestic affairs, had arranged the child in a 
small arm chair, and placed it before the fire. That fire 
was blazing cheerfully upon the t-tone hearth. The mod- 
ern stove, with its tin appendages and its dim, mute heat, 
had not then driven-away the cheerfulness of the old fash- 
ioned fire-place. The rough jambs, the sooty crane, the 
pendant crane hook«, the shovel and tongs, the andirons 
with turned heads, the large forestick, the crackling blaze, 
the pot o'erhung. and the live- coals beneath — all stood as 
living realities where they now exist' only in the dim 
visions of memory. A smile of gratification, such as moth- 
ers only can feel, came over her as she heard the prattle, 
and saw the expanding intellect of her beautiful boy! 
With this feeling of pride and pleasure, she left the room 
for a few moments to perform some necessary duty. That 
accomplished, she hastened back to her charge. Its 
screams startled her from her trance of pleasuie ; and oh! 
on entering the room, a scene of horror past description 
met her ga<ze ! The child — by what means no one could 
tell ; it seemed'as if an evil genius had stolen in and done 
it — the child had overturned the chair and fallen forward, 
throwing its Iktis -he&d, all tender and' bare, directly tinder 
that, for esUCsk- ?> ar*d'> dose upon, those- burning coal^, 'The; 



11 

mother sprang like one frantic, and snatched it from its 
perilous position, then screamed for help. Lt was too 
late ; the fire had done its fearful work. The infant's 
head had been literally roasted. The skin peeled off from 
ear to ear, and from the top of the forehead to- the back 
of the neck. In some spots it was burned to the bone, so 
that the flesh cleaved off like a piece of roast beef from 
the bones which it encloses ! A physician was called, 
the wound was dressed ; but so terrible an injury was 
deemed past all cure. The heat from- without h?d reached 
the brain, and affected the tissues of that delicate organ. 
Indeed, the open- space — sincipital fontanel — usual in 
the^head of a young child., had left bare a portion of the 
brain itself. The screams of the child were heart-rend- 
ing ; and continued so for a week or more,, when it sunk 
into a state of insensibility, and remained in that condi- 
tion for several weeks, apparently unconscious either of 
pain or of existence. / 

Dr. Geo. Willard, of Uxbridge, assisted by eminent 
counsel, had charge of the case. For a long time he 
watched and toiled, constantly and skilfully applying his 
remedies, and waited the result, expecting that every day 
would be its last. Such, however, was not the ordaining 
of Divine. Providence. Dark to us may be that Divine 
ordering vvhich, out of apparent death, permitted life for 
prospective murder! Earnestly, but, perhaps, vainly, we 
inquire the reason. There is a wisdom, however, and a 
goodness in such a course of Providence, which, though 
we cannot fathom it, we are not permitted to distrust, or 
censure or condemn. After several weeks, the wound 
began to heal, and the child to awaken from the deep de- 
lirious sleep of cerebral inflammation, But that; return of 
reason was followed by another serious affliction. 
Spasms super.vened, frequent at first, and then less 
often, but more violent;, and these continued, afc intervals, 
for several succeeding years. The- experienced medical 
attendant could, easily foresee, that, though- the physical 
injury might be completely healed, the child would never 
regain the tone and vigor of. his intellectual, faculties.. 



12 

Medical skill will often do wonders ; but when the myste* 
tious mind is the subject of its effects, it is sometimes 
shorn of its laurels, and the most judicious applications 
fall powerless, for good, upon the diseased organ. 

It was not until the following July, that the child 
evinced signs of amendment ; and even then it was of 
short duration* The healing, which had commenced, was 
followed by spasms, and these partially subsiding the 
wound broke out afresh. In August, the child was ta- 
ken to a sort of private hospital or dispensary, under the 
care of Dr. Nathaniel Miller, of Franklin. Here he was 
kept for some weeks, and received considerable benefit. 
The condition of his parents did not allow of an expensive 
course of medical treatment. They did all which love, 
aad care, and their limited means would permit. The 
child was taken from this institution, convalescent. Rea^ 
son had in a measure resumed her empire; but the brain 
and nervous tissues were still subject to those mysterious 
convulsive shocks^ which always derange, and sometimes 
destroy the mental powers, causing melancholia, ill- humor, 
passion, hallucination, monomania, or perhaps absolute 
fatuity. Months of tedious watching, and even long 
years, passed away, before the wound upon the head, 
was entirely healed. In the meanwhile, the injury pro- 
duced exfoliation of the bone, and several large pieces 
passed from the wound in the process of healing* At 
length, after a lapse of six years, every part of the sore 
was, for the first time, entirely healed over ; and the 
youth, who had passed from infancy into the midst tff 
boyhood, presented a head, as bald and bare, as an old 
man of seventy. But even this cure was not permanent. 
Often thereafter, in the course of life, the wound would 
break out and discharge afresh* The child's growth in* 
creased, and time now began to unfold the future man. 
And with the development of his character, he exhibited 
eccentricities that but too plainly showed the results of 
the sad catastrophe, which formed an important epoch in 
ills fchildish life. It was here, doubtless, that he met with 
ihom controlling influences— here was laid the foundation 



13 

of that irresistably impulsive character, — which afterwards* 
ruled his destiny, and made him the murderer of the wife- 
whom he tenderly loved. Every one must admit that 
such trifling circumstances do, sometimes, control the 
lives and destinies of men. 



No State in the Union is more beautifully interspersed 
with hill and valley than Vermont,— none rendered more 
delightfully picturesque by its winding streams, its laugh- 
ing cascades, its verdant meadows, its steep declivities, 
its precipitins rocks, its lofty mountains and its forests of 
evergreens, famed in history, all thrown together in the 
wild disorder of Nature's own loveliness. The tract of 
country along the declivities of the Green Mountains, early 
attracted the attention of emigrants, boih from the gran- 
deur of its scenery, the productiveness of its soil, and the 
salubrity of its climate. The State lies, generally, in a 
latitude not subject to the extremes of heat and cold. The 
snows fall upon the mountains of green, but not to re- 
main throughout the year, in defiance of a summer's sun. 

The heat of summer is sometimes intense ; but, genera- 
ted by the very heat, the thunders peal and the lightnings 
dance along the rugged hill sides, and showers leap from 
mountain to mountain, across the forests and meadows, 
drinking up the beams of the burning sun, and reviving 
the drooping earth! Then the gentle breezes sweep the 
mountains and play along the hills and valleys, bearing 
coolness, and health, and vigor in their course. No State 
is more healthy, and none bears a more hardy, hospitable, 
generous and chivalrous population. It is famed in his- 
tory for the bravery of its indomitable " Green Mountain 
Boys," in the war of the revolution ; and stands unrivaled 
for the dignified course it took with reference to the con- 
flicting claims of New York and New Hampshire to the 
sovereignty of its territory. 

On the southern border of this State, adjoining Massa- 
chusetts, lies the pleasant town of Whitingham, wedged in 
under the eastern declivity of the Green Mountains, clip-v 
ped, on its southwest corner, by the transit of the Deerfiled 



14 

river, and intersected by several other streamlets of pure 
and crystal waters. Its surface is broken, and its scenery 
greatly diversified. Rock and river, hill, mountain and 
valley, verdant in summer, but while in winter, all meet in 
unstudied magnificence, and present the greater charms 
from their wild contiguity. 

To this sequestered spot, the home of thrift, of virtue 
and of happiness, the young Streeter was conveyed by his 
parents, and became a youthful farmer. Blessed with other 
children, the parents were anxious to provi-de for the wants 
of a growing family and bring them up apart from the evil 
influences of more populous towns. Consequently, in the 
spring of 1829, they sought this retirement, and entered 
upon the labors and the rewards of agriculture. Here, sur- 
rounded by everything calculated to promote the growth of 
virtue, their hapless, first born son spent about seven years 
of the most interesting and important period of his life. 
And here commenced, in some measure, the develop- 
ments of the future man. The index figure began to rise 
up and point off towards a dark and boisterous expanse, 
not so much of crime, as of wild unstudied impetuosity of 
character. Deficient in intellect, dull of perception, "hard 
to learn," he was / nevertheless, impulsive, irascible, im- 
petuous and almost entirely without caution. And yet he 
was a youth of deep emotion: his attachments were strong, 
his resentments sudden, but ephemeral, and his feelings 
ringed with melancholy ; but, except in occasional out- 
bursts, were seldom seen through the unmeaning linea- 
ments of his countenance. The injury of his childhood 
<bad evidently exerted an influence upon his moral and in- 
tellectual conformation. He was not a maniac, in the 
common acceptation ; he was not' insane, intellectually ; 
and yet he was subject to a species of moral aberration — to 
use the language of M Pirael, mania sans delire — in conse- 
quence of which he acted from impulse, or a heedless 
impetuosity of feeling, not under a complete control of the 
will. It was this opening condition of his mind that wore 
■a fearful aspect with reference to the future. 

During the years spent in the quiet pursuits of agricul- 



Y6 

'ture, he was sent to school, yet made hut little progress in 
learning. He was under good moral training, yet, without 
appearing vicious or ungovernable, he showed the same 
want of perception. And he seemed., also, to evince a 
want of eare for his own personal safety. s He repeatedly 
met wirh accidents and injuries, generally trifling, but 
sometimes severe. In the early part of his residence in 
Vermont, he was severely burned with gunpowder. Left 
alone one evening, with the younger members of the fam- 
ily, while his parents went out to visit a neighbor, he pro- 
cured a flask of powder, and began making experiments 
by casting particles of the explosive material upon the 
fire, for the amusement of the rest. He was warned 
against it, and earnestly admonished, by his young sisters, 
to desist. But every effort only inflamed his impetuous 
temperament, and aroused his fool hardiness ; and he, 
therefore, began to pour the terrible material from the 
flask upon the fire. The fire caught, flashed and fol- 
lowed the stream from the hearth to his hand, exploded, 
and shattered the flask and burnt his hand, face and side, 
severely. It was some weeks before he recovered from 
the injury here received. Nature, however, with the as- 
sistance of art and constant care, at length accomplished 
the work. He was restored to his usual health ; but only 
to go forth and exhibit other feats of equal folly and rash- 
ness. He received little instruction or warning from that 
terrible experisnce* He was apt to fall; and would throw 
himself as if by impulse into the most fearful and periloug 
positions, and seem unconscious of danger. At work, 
on one occasion, with several others^ he walked barefoot 
upon the sharp edge of a scythe and did not seem to know 
it was there, until a severe cut severing the integuments 
of the bottom of his foot, and laying bare the bones, had 
warned him of his heedlessness. It was a terrible wound, 
which confined him to the house for a long time, but ad- 
ded nothing to his stock of prudence or care of himself. — » 
Days passed with the repetition, ever and anon, of disaster 
&&d mishaps, with the same result. The school of acci« 



16 

dents made but little impression upon his rash and obtuse 
mind. So passed his life. 

The singularities of his character increased with the 
advance of manhood, and began to throw a sombre hue 
over the movements of his mind. Still he was compara- 
tively happy, — easily excited, easily affected even to tears, 
but easily governed. He was unsuspicious, and seldom 
able to distinguish between the language of sport and pre- 
tence, and that of truth and soberness. 

He had now reached the sixteenth year of his age. A 
numerous family and increasing cares and duties de- 
manded a change in the condition of his parents. They 
resolved to leave the quiet of their rural employment, and 
again embark in the pursuits of factory operatives. Ac- 
cordingly, they closed their business, arranged their house- 
hold, and provided a team ; their goods were loaded — 
chairs, tables, beds, cooking utensils, and " trumpery " in- 
general, were piled upon the vehicle, after the manner of 
a " moving" in New-England; and in 1S36 they bade- 
adieu to their sequestered home in the Green Mountains, 
and turned their steps towards the region of their former 
residence. 



CHAPTER II. 

Changes of lesidence^sickness^Quinebaug^Soutlibridge. 
n, .. , , " ° h •' from the dreams 
Of youth and pleasure, hath not manhood still 
A wild and stormy wakening %» 

■m?£vh B vil,a S es ', and ev ™ populous towns have spruncr 

sea he luX M g ^ ' ,ne ° f railr ° adS that »"- 
Wk k ° Massac huse(ts n every direction 

S:t e L W,,h lhe "~of wealth an/ popX i° on 
there is a corresponding, increase of virtue and happiness 
-or whether the latter bear the same ratio to theT me r 
wi.hY F 38 '* IS a < l uestl0 ". l oo intimately connected 

2L P TA :T on V° admit of an eas ? siio " ^8 

SoDuTa.J' ' F Certa,n ' h0VVever - that ^ith the increase of 

E v T C ' S 'J 38 ' ,ncrease of crime, poverty and 

icSv J g T theHtreS ° f P lodu otive irUustryf par . 

mas of 1'Z" ufaCtUr, "g- ? em l ° gather arou " d th ^' a 

ESftS poverty ' unknovvu t0 lhe ■—"* « ™j 

How far the pursuits of industry, in the law mu. n r M 

jarsi'T'^ bestud ! "^sft 

i 86 "'.'^' ,he '"tresis, and even the health of those 
engaged in them, ,s another question of deeper import but 
far more d.fficult of sohnion. It is certain.E^ 'tha 
the female operatives generally suffer incalculable e ils 
hSnSSr. tb ,t y t1len,SdveS are ™ are of, from the Jong 

that, with such toil. JEi£2ZLLZ&^ 

ong retain their health, and the elasticity ^o youthful 
pm s. It ,s very sad to see the future mothers^f Ne^v E„ " 
and s population, so fair, so beautiful, so gentle « intel- 
lectual, shut up » n0 i sy rooms and w ; st J ™?' p ° "<f 
ener gl Q render them ; b| * ' £ 

that indomitable race of men who have heretofore held 



18 

dominion over the soil of freedom ! Yet these are evils — 
not primary, but incidental to all those pursuits of indus- 
try, calculated to elevate the social condition, and diffuse 
happiness throughout an ever-increasing and ever-active 
population. No blame, in general, should be attached to 
those conducting the large industrial establishments of 
this country. It is a noble spirit of enterprise, that in- 
vests extensive capital, and plies the loftiest intellect to 
the perfection of the arts, and the production of the great- 
est amount of wealth with smallest outlay of labor, suffer- 
ing and loss of life. Yet under the direction of the most 
humane and philanthropic, the most intelligent and far- 
seeing, evils will occur, which no human foresight can 
prevent. Mingled with the very evils, however, the me- 
chanic arts spring up and advance to perfection, with a 
growth and a power for the good of man, at once sublime 
and full of promise. Bear, then, with the evils, which 
come as dark spirits in the train of superabounding good ; 
but strive always to correct them. 

One evening, a load of goods was seen to approach a small 
house standing near a factory, known as Fenner's Mill, in 
Dudley. It had just reached that place from the green 
hills of Vermont. The family to whom the goods belonged, 
had already arrived and were to be the occupants of that 
small dwelling. They consisted of a man, his wife, a son 
of sixteen, and several daughters. That son was the fu- 
ture murderer. He had reached a period for a change in 
the mode of his life. From this time, his father and his 
young sisters were to take their chance and bide their des- 
tiny in the labors of a cotton mill. As soon as their 
household affairs were arranged, Mr. Streeter, and some 
of the family, entered the mill to toil for others. Here they 
spent two years. Milton, in later life, looked back upon 
that period and called it pleasant. The memories inter- 
woven around it, were blissful even to him. Still he 
acquired the reputation of being ugly, passionate, violent, 
and sometimes terrible in the impetuosity of his passions ! 
There were gentle spirits often toiling near him, who 
feared and trembled, 

?* As if a storm passed by," 



19 

when his anger rose to its height* Yet he was gentle as 
a lamb at the voice of his father, or when the heat of bis 
passion had subsided. Here, too, he betrayed the same 
unaccoutable heedlessness of his personal safety, exhibited 
all through his life. He would glide among the machi- 
nery, into the most dangerous positions, with apparent 
unconcern for himself. All around him would be aroused 
to a complete phrenzy of excitement, while he alone was 
cool ; his face wore always the same dull expression. The 
nicer shades of deep emotion were seldom seen to mark 
the lineaments of his countenance. It would seem some- 
times, as if he tried to see how near he could tread upon 
the very verge of destruction, and yet escape it ! 

On the appearance of the early snow, he was out one 
day, with others, enjoying the sports of the season — the 
New-England boyish pastime of " sliding down hill." 
More venturesome than the rest, and more dull in per- 
ceiving and apprehending danger, he would go into places 
where others dare not trust themselves. The perils which 
he risked frequently ended in terrible accidents. On this 
occasion, he dared so much, as well nigh cost him his 
life, yet he escaped with merely a severe bruise in the 
hand. The lessons of past experience had all been lost 
wpon him ; he was obliged to suffer again and bear anew 
the results of his own carelessness. 

Few diseases are more terrible among children than 
that of Scarlet ina or scarlet fever ; not so much from the 
eruption itself, as from its destructive influence upon the 
whole circulation, giving rise to various consequences, 
which often terminate only with the life of the victim. 
Especially on a constitution naturally weak, or impaired 
by adventitious disease, it runs its course with terrible se- 
verity. Past his sixteenth year, Milton Streeter was 
attacked with this disease, which ran a severe course upon 
his constitution. He was enfeebled in limbs, his head 
suffered, and the shock was felt upon the whole nervous 
system. Still in due time he recovered, and returned to 
his usual labor. His nervoas irritability was increased, 
and his emotions and actions became more impetuous and 
iess under !lbe control of the will. 



20 

One of the greatest evils connected with the life of fac- 
tory operatives is the frequency of change. Trifling cir- 
cumstances sometimes procure their dismissal from the 
service of their employers. Or perhaps the desire of higher 
rewards occasion still more changes. Often, however, the 
increased remuneration does not counterbalance the ex- 
pense of removal. 

Mr. Streeter was not exempt from the desire of increased 
gains, and from that and other causes, he made several 
changes and removals during the succeeding two years. 
His next position was at a small village on the banks of 
the Quinebaug river, called Westville, lying partly in 
Southbridge and partly in Sturbridge. Here he entered 
the factory, with his children, and resumed its course of 
life and labor. This factory was an old building, on the 
left bank of the river, doing a small and raiher unprofita- 
ble business. His stay was very short. In the course 
of six months, he had made another movement of about 
ten miles, to a small village called Fisherville in Thomp- 
son, Conn. A few months spent here produced another 
change, in the father's mind, and gave rise to another 
removal. He returned to Westville, remained there a few 
months, and then removed again. 

How far these changes of location affected the mind of 
Milton, now grown to the full stature of manhood, it is 
impossible to say. Unfortunately, there is always a class 
of people, connected with populous villages, whose example 
is decidedly unfavorable to virtue. In all communities 
there are different orders or classes of mind, of taste and 
feelings. Minds and tastes of the same class, whether 
higher or lower, generally consort, more or less, with each 
other, and form their own habits and associations. There 
are, in the same class, mutual attractions of thought, habit 
and enjoyments. Minds of different classes in contiguity 
tfepel each other, and have but little natural sympathy or 
delightful conversation. And the doings of each class 
seem shut up from the knowledge and participation of 
individuals of other classes, as much as your secret socie- 
ties are shut against the intrusion of innovaters, or your 
churches against the worlds people. Members of one 



21 

class may look on and behold the doings and enjoyments 
of another class, without the power of participation, and 
without comprehending their nature, or the secret charm 
that binds the class together and makes them happy, ia 
their intercourse with each other. 

The vicissitudes in the life of Milton, for the past few 
years, brought him in contact with minds similar to his 
own; low, dull, rude, whose tastes and pleasures were 
utterly uncongenial with the more delicate, virtuous, re- 
fined, and intellectual class of minds. That such an 
association must exert an influence in no wise favorable, 
upon a mental and moral organization already of a pecu- 
liar mould, no one can doubt. He sought for his asso- 
ciates among that class whose miads bore the similitude 
of his own. Sweeter far to him were the pleasures of 
sense than those of the intellect. His bosom heaved with 
deep emotion, but seldom gladdened with the contempla- 
tion of moral excellence. 

As he grew in life, no man was more susceptible of deep 
and varied impressions. Trifles often affected him. His 
nervous sensibilities were drawn to their highest tension, 
and felt the touch, and vibrated with deep and hollow 
tones to the most trifling outward influence. Anger, grief 
and sadness began now to exhibit their more marked 
characteristics. His cerebral organization was ill suited 
to bear the shocks imposed upon the nervous system. 
Seldom was he roused with emotions of any kind, either of 
grief, or excessive joy, but that his head was the first to 
feel its effect. Severe headache was, also, a constant 
concomitant of any excessive emotion ; and this at times 
has continued for several days in succession. From this 
circumstance, he was unfitted to battle his way along 
through the conflicts of the world, with honor or appro- 
bation. They called him ugly, and so he was ; but giief 
and sadness always hurried fast upon the heels of his ugli- 
ness. The unobserving and unphilosophical could not see 
through that stolid countenance, to the world of deep emo- 
tion within. They might boast of their acquaintance with 
human nature ; but, seen from one stand-point only, (and 



22 

few look farther,) it would not reveal every thing that be- 
longs to the individual man. Milton was uncommunicative; 
his grief was all his own, while his ugliness flashed like a 
meteor across the pathway of his associates. Had he 
been better known, more carefully studied and more 
kindly dealt with, he might have met a different fate. 
Men who pride themselves in their keen discrimination, 
are often very ignorant of all the elements that go to make 
up the varied man. They bring all their judgments to 
that one phase of humanity, with which, from long associ- 
ation, they happen to be familiar. Few have the ability 
to insinuate themselves into the temple of the inner man, 
and read the inscriptions engraved upon the walls of that 
secret dwelling. They judge from the outward manifesta- 
tions, and often judge of one from what they have 
seen in another, and then pretend to understand " hu- 
man nature!" 

It was thus that Milton Streeter. was judged — thus he 
was understood, or rather misunderstood, by those with 
whom he associated and the community in which he 
lived. They called him ugly, but who with such a tem- 
perament could fail to exhibit such traits of ugliness as 
might bury the good elements from public view? And yet 
he was misunderstood, as almost every one is misunder- 
stood, whose passions predominate over his prudence and 
discretion. 

It is a beautiful and romantic tract of country, that lies 
along the borders of Quinebaug /iver from its source to its 
termination. Once the red men of the forest roamed along 
the winding current of that river, and enjoyed their pas- 
times, or pursued the chase in all the freedom of nature. 
But their wigwam is now buried in the dust, their tracks 
are no longer seen, and their song and dance no longer 
cheer the vales of the Quinebaug. The laughing hills no 
longer send back the echo of their mirth. The tide of a 
stranger emigration has swept over (heir homes, and they 
are gone. Towns and villages have sprung up, as if by 
enchantment, on the very places consecrated as their an- 
cient abode. The white man treads upon the sacred pre- 



/ 23 

cincts where they have sat in social joy or smoked the 
pipe of peace; and he knows it not. The very memory 
of them is fast passing away. The rude wigwam has 
given place to the stately mansion of civilization, and the 
temple of a thousand wheels — the building all alive with 
the hum of machinery and of human industry, has grown 
up majestically, by the river banks, and has drank, and is 
still drinking up its crystal waters ! 

The village of Westville is hedged in on all sides by 
lofty hills. The old cotton mill, standing upon the river's 
brink is now deserted. Its last operator made a ° failure' 1 
and has " moved away." The old saw mill still does its 
work, cutting into board the remnants of mountain pine, 
that yet remain in the neighborhood. The hammer of the 
cheery smith rings merrily a little below the old bridge. 
Farther down is the new " shuttle shop," the abode of 
industry, genius and thrift. God bless its enterprising 
proprietors ! Still lower down, below that high bluff, 
around which the river winds, you come to Globe village. 
There stands its high, square-built dam, that sets the 
water back for half a mile. On its left bank is the cotton 
mill ; on the right is the saw mill with its long flume, or 
aqncevia suspended high in air. Lower down is the large 
brick woollen mill, the property of the Hamilton Manu- 
facturing Co., " with all the appurtenances thereunto be- 
longing. " 

Passing along, over that hill, half a mile or more, you 
reach the Central Village, which, in days of yore received 
the graphic sobriquet of Honest-town. For what reason 
it received this name, does not very clearly appear, unless 
because the ancient population, addicted to knavery, al- 
ways wore a countenance of inexpressible honesty. It is 
true madam Rumor has it, that the early settlers were cut 
from the same piece with the founders of ancient Rome; 
and were so accustomed to driving li sharp bargains," that, 
when they could cheat no one else, they would fall to and 
cheat one another ! And the same fat old lady has further 
darkly intimated, that long ago they had some mysterious 
connexion with the notorious Stephen Burroughs, of Pel- 



24 

ham preaching memory. The careful reader, however, 
is admonished not to place too much confidence in the 
gossip of so equivocal a personage as Mrs. Rumor. Con- 
cerning her dart insinuations the Chronicler speaks not. 
He has not made sufficient investigations of the early his- 
tory of the place to state them as facts. Many of the first 
settlers bore the name of Ammidown, — a name honorably 
interwoven with the history of the place, and borne by 
some worthy men residing there even at the present time. 

As you pass down, you come to the ancient residence 
of the Marcy family. It is an old mansion, well built, 
standing at the left, on a round eminence, exposed to the 
full force of the wintry wind, fresh from the northwest. 
There was born the late Secretary of War, who held the 
position under the administration of President Polk. The 
name has become distinguished, and so blended with the 
history of the country, that it will not soon sink into ob- 
scurity. 

You hurry down that smooth hill to the flat below. It 
is a beautiful place, redeemed from an ancient mud-hole, 
by the industry of the public-spirited Honest-towners. 1 hat 
small shoe shop on the right belongs to a very quiet and 
industrious man, Mr. D. A. Hawks, who has some con- 
cernment with the future history of Milton W. Streeter. 
Nearly opposite is that laughing, joking, good natured 
steam philosopher, whose shop is said to be somewhat 
spiritual, though the occupant has not yet fully renounced 
" the world, the flesh and the devil !" He is a good citi- 
zen, of temperate habits, eschewing " mineral medicines. " 
but fond of mineral waters, especially those of a bubbling 
spring in Connecticut. 

Farther along there are stores and shops on either side, 
the abodes of industry and thrift, and the reports of hon- 
orable trade. The merchants in Southbridge, generally 
stand high in the vocation to which they belong. What- 
ever madam Rumor may have asserted with reference to 
the past, it is certain that the present generation', for hon- 
orable trade, have redeemed the time, and now stand be- 
fore the community unsurpassed, in their vocation, in all 



25 

that region of country. Their business habits, and fair 
dealing, have drawn an extensive irade into the two pleas- 
ant villages in that town. 

On the right hand at the corner of the streets, in full 
view, stands the public house. You turn to the left and 
pass down to the bridge, and there, on the right, in its low 
concealed grandeur, stands the Central Cotton Mill. It 
is under the conduct of E. Ammidown, Esq., a man dis- 
tinguished for his ability in the management of business 
affairs. 

The village altogether is pleasant and romantic. The 
scenery around is charming. Across the river, at the 
left, is that rugged eminence called Dresser Hill ; adown, 
at the right, the river winds its dreamy waters along 
through an extensive meadow. It had just broke forth 
from beneath impending hills. Dark forests stand clothed 
in their sombre drapery in the distance ; and seem, some- 
times, to throw back a shade of gloom over the cheerful- 
ness of busy life. The fern and the wild rose grow to- 
gether in the pastures ; the soil teems with the fruits of 
productive industry, and everything around exhibits the 
smiles of thrift and of plenty. 



CHAPTER III. 

Central Mill — injuries — idle habits — melancholy. 

How few, beneath auspicious planets born, 
With swelling sails make good the promised port, 
With all their wishes freighted ! 

Into this village, came Mr. Asa Streetcr with his family 
in April, 1S40, and commenced labor in the Central mill. 
Milton was then near twenty years old. He had the 
growth of manhood, with the desire, so common to young 
men of his age, to be and act for himself He was, how- 
ever, docile, and complied, without complaint, with his 
father's wishes. He went to work, aud labored faithfully, 
as heretofore, until his twentieth birthday. His father 
then gave him his freedom and permitted him to act for 
himself. This seemed to form a new era both in his life 
and his feelings. He thereafter appeared a different man, 
more impatient of restraint and less disposed to receive the 
advice even of his parents. The discriminating father 
soon saw the error that he had committed, but it was too 
late to retract. It was only by gentle means that he 
could hope to lead the young man along the path of virtue. 
This had always served as a most effectual restraint. It 
was still continued ; and the eccentric young man felt its 
power and bowed to its influence. He pursued his daily 
avocation, boarding with his father, as one of the family, 
and paying something for his board. He persevered in 
labor and was steady in his habits until the fall of 1841. 

At that time, unheeding, as usual, the lessons of acci- 
dent, he received another severe injury. His hand -was 
caught by the rapid wheels, and drawn suddenly into a 
carding machine in full motion. The fine teeth of the 
machine ground rapidly over the entire surface, and tote 
the skin and flesh from the back of the hand, leaving bare 
the bones and the tendons, like the skinned toes of a wild 



27 

beast ! He was laid up for months, unable to perform his 
accustomed labor. The recuperative powers of nature, 
however, — vis medicatrix naturce — at length succeeded in 
repairing the injury ; and he went back to his work in 
the mill. He toiled but one day, and as if in the sheerest 
carelessness, he got his hand again caught in the same 
way. The machine tore open the old wound and made it 
worse than at first. Back to the sick loom he was again 
conveyed. His wound was dressed, and every assistance 
rendered the efforts of nature for a second recovery. A 
long and tedious time elapsed before it was effected. 
Many said the deed was committed on purpose, that he 
might have a decent excuse to get rid of toil. They 
greatly mistook the man. He hated labor deeply, thor- 
oughly, and would get rid of it, if he could. But he was 
incapable of acting with such a determine! purpose of self- 
immolation. It was the result of that unstudied impetu- 
osity that had long governed his life. He was always 
subject to periods when he would appear strange — when 
he acted, as if by impulse, unheeding results. Little things 
afflicted him deeply, but the depth of his feeling lay con- 
gealed from the glance of the careless observer. A wild- 
ness glared in his eye, and he seemed in a great hurry, as 
if the whole business of the world rested upon his own 
shoulders, with but a moment's time to do it. But with 
all his hurry he seldom brought an} thing to pass. 

Amid every scene of exciiement, there was, also, that 
perpetual melancholy and perpetual round of headache. It 
made him fretful and peevish ; dark thoughts gathered 
over his mind, the harbingers of a stormy life. He imag- 
ined that the whole world was against him, and a deeper 
feeling now began to steal over him. He had no wish to 
live, for life was becoming a burden. 

Whi'e prevented from labor, by the injury of his hand, 
he lounged about the town in idleness. He had no taste 
for reading or intellectual culture, for he had but a small 
share of intellect to Cultivate. Men are united by the 
sympathies of kindred habits, tastes and feelings. Milton 
loved the society of Ben Irish, a man of gome more in- 



28 

tellect and discretion, but otherwise formed in the same 
mould. There were two others, young men, with whom he 
had formed an acquaintance by the name of Reynolds, — 
Marvin and Edwin. They all loved amusements ; and no- 
thing seemed more detestable to them than steady and per- 
severing labor. They would traverse the forest for week3 
together, to shoot a poor harmless bird ; but had little 
relish for that kind of physical exertion which is really 
useful. Seldom did they go forth to the forest chase 
without some sort of spirituous aid. There were others 
too, in higher stations in the town, not specially holy, who 
nevertheless often invoked the aid of a kindred spirit ! If 
there was any idleness, or lounging, vulgarly called loafing 
to be done, you mi^ht see a scudding smile of unutterable 
unction playing upon the countenance of Henry Barber, 
while engaged in its performance. 

Yet Henry is very good — very tender hearted — some- 
times very mellow, and very kind to the gentler sex. He 
had a brother, son of the same mother, and transcript of 
the same father ; but death took suddenly hold of him in 
a fit of intoxication. He was then given to the scalpel for 
a post mortem examination, and at length buried, a warn- 
ing to every worshiper at the shrine of Bacchus. 

These were all men of some good traits of character. 
They were not without feelings. Nay, warm attachments 
and deep emotions burned in their bosoms. Do not con- 
demn them as totally depraved — altogether evil. They 
had their friends and associates, their companions and bo- 
som crones; but they belonged to a world and received 
enjoyments peculiarly their own. And he who cannot 
enter into their world and observe the sources of their 
pleasure, whose heart beats not in unison with their sym- 
pathies, may not pass judgment against them. He is un- 
qualified to do so. However much he may boast of his 
knowledge of human nature, he knows not the secrets of 
their nature ; he looks not into th6 mysteries of their 
world. He looks down upon them, from another sphere, 
and the glimpses he may catch of their outward life, does 
not reveal to him all the lights and shadows of the world 
within. 



29 

These were the fit associates of Milton W. Streeter. Their 
minds were accordant with his own. He loved their 
habits, and sought their society ; and often, with them, 
he traversed the tangled forests, as they went forth on 
their excursions of pleasure. Henry Barber, however, had 
but little inclination for such sports ; they were too great 
a tax upon his physical energies. He was not obstinate 
nor parsimonious ; he was not disposed to resist the claims 
of the State upon his person or his substance for the sup- 
port of its institutions. You might take his money, if he 
had any. or his old hat, or even his unmentionables, and 
he would submit quietly. But when you asked him for 
work — when you called on him for physical exertion, he 
shook his head ; it was a kind of taxation to which he 
was unwilling to submit. 

Milton had now been out of the mill for a year or more, 
and he concluded not to return again to that employment. 
Accordingly he engaged himself to Mr. E Ammidown, to 
work at farming ; and he pursued that labor quite steadily 
until the expiration of his engagement. Yet in this avo- 
cation, he was not left to an undisturbed repose of mind. 
He was subject, as heretofore, to the vexatious merriment 
of those laboring with him; and he exhibited his usual 
irritability of temper. He could not bear to be teased, or 
joked at all ; and his companions knew it. Everything 
said in jest, he would take in sober earnest, and was often 
exceedingly offended. George Dillaber was another of the 
same fraternity — of similar tastes and a very suitable com- 
peer for Milton Streeter. He was more gentle in dispo- 
sition and of a much higher order of intellect, but of a turn 
of mind to relish the same class of pleasures. Profanity 
and vulgar jests furnished a source of high enjoyment to 
this class. In these, however, Milton could not so well 
participate. He was profane and vulgar enough ; but he 
had no power to shape his vulgarity into jokes. He could 
neither give or take them with any grace. Ben Irish, 
however, was keen ; he loved the sport as he loved his 
dinner, especially when the shafts were not aimed too 
bard against himself. 



30 

One day while this trio of kindred spirits were at work 
for Mr. Ammidown, getting in hay, they began, uncon- 
sciously, to lighten labor by an interchange of raillery. 
Their jokes played with a dull monotony around the head 
of Milton. His anger was at length aroused to the point 
of explosion, and, seizing a pitchfork, he turned violently 
towards Dillaber, arid threatened to M run him through l" 
Irish interfered ; but Dillaber, with the bravado peculiar 
to his cast, resisted the interference, and asserted his 
ability to " handle Streeter.' 7 at any time, without assist- 
ance. This speck of a tempest was followed by a copi- 
ous shower of profanity, and then it cleared off and quiet 
was restored. 

Afterwards for some trifling cause, Streeter made the 
same threat against Ben Irish. But no one present re- 
garded it as anything more than a mere threat. It was 
the common language of the class to which he belonged, 
in the sudden bursts of passion which frequently crossed 
the sunshine of their path. 

Concluding his labors with Mr. Ammidown, he was 
again thrown upon his oars. In this condition he contin- 
ued for a while, and then, changing his purpose, he de- 
termined to try his fortune again in the mill. He ob- 
tained a place, and continued in that employment until 
the Spring of 1S44. Then he became unsteady and off 
ggain. 

From this time forth he ceased to confine himself to any 
steady employment. Much of his time was spent either 
in idleness, or what is worse, in useless and even vicious 
pursuits. His attachment'to the two young brothers — E. 
and M. Reynolds — increased ; he sought their society and 
seemed in their presence to be relieved of his melancholy. 
Benjamin Irish, also was for him, a very crone — the life 
of his life and the soul of his soul, only he could not always 
stand the shafts, and, of coutse, labelled against the bril- 
liant gems of Benjamin's wit ! His friendships, however, 
were of short duration, and subject to continual change. 
He was too easily excited, and too violent in his wrath, to 
&a*e any warm and perraauent friends. His singularities 



31 

grew upon him; his passions became every day more un- 
controllable ; a deeper tinge of melancholy was settling 
down upon his inward life, and every year brought forth 
some new exhibition of that headlong impetuosity, which 
characterized every period of his history. This was now 
increased by the impulse of melancholy, the excitement of 
headache, the impression that the world was against him, 
the half-bred misanthropy produced by that impression, 
and the gathering aversion to life itself. 

From March until July, he gave himself up to lounging 
and idleness. Then he went to Webster, and worked 
awhile for his uncle, a Mr. Brown. A few weeks brought 
him home again ; but he soon after went to Dudley, and 
engaged himself to a Mr. Rogers, to learn the '* art and 
mystery " of making shoes. His experience, in that 
business was very short ; six or eight weeks were suffi- 
cient confinement for his restless spirit. His whole mind 
was like the troubled ocean, — not from crime or from 
want, but from the agitations of a temperament over- 
whelmed with conflicting emotions. He was away from 
his boon companions. The life of a hunter, so much his 
delight, could not be enjoyed in other pursuits. Of con- 
sequence he left his shoemaking and again spent a short 
time with his uncle in Webster. 

The autumnal frosts had begun to change the hue of 
vegetation ; his summer had passed away without profit, 
and now he was borne home sick to his father's house. 
He was seized with a fever which, for a time, raged with 
great violence. Delirium had locked up his senses in a 
night of profound oblivion. To him was that space of ex- 
istence all lost; and it had been better, perhaps, if he had 
lost even a longer space of his life. His fever at length 
abated, but recovery was slow, and the results, upon his 
nervous organization, were very perceptible. His head, 
as usual, was greatly affected; the pain was severe, and 
the petulance and irritability in no wise diminished. 

No severe pain can be long and constantly suffered, 
without producing a marked effect upon the moral nature. 
Danger and suffering are the two instrumentalities most 



32 

calculated to imbrute humanity. The best disposition, 
the most even balanced mind, is often soured and rendered 
fretful, and morose, and even brutal, by constant suffer- 
ing. The mass of people are not disposed to make al- 
lowance for the violence of temper produced by suffering, 
and suffering, too, which they themselves may have in- 
flicted. You cannot tease and torment a dog or a horse 
continually, without making the animal vicious. The 
same effect is produced upon every other animal by the 
same causes. Can a man, then, especially of a low older 
of intellect, be expected to suffer constant pain without 
receiving some injurious effects ? 

Milton Streeter, subject as he was, to pain and sadness, 
was not the man to be mended, in his disposition, by the 
exercise of severity. After his recovery, he was less dis- 
posed than ever, to ply his mind and body to any consec- 
utive labor. If he worked at all, it was only at brief and 
uncertain periods, as the fit happened* to take him. 

You see that low, modest tasteful brick building on the 
right hand side of the street as you pass from the Central 
Village in Southbridge toward the Columbian. It is the 
Bank. Standing a little back, by the side of that large 
barn, is a long, low, narrow building that has an ominous 
appearance. You may hear, sometimes late at night, a 
deep rumbling and crackling like distant thunder. It is 
a nine-pin alley — a place of resort for several different 
classes, that form a part of the country's population. Such 
a place of amusement may be useful to some persons of 
enfeebled powers, who need exercise and have nothing 
else to do. But it is not, after all, a very frequented re- 
sort of those great and good men, useful and influential in 
their day, who, when they have passed from the stage of 
action, leave behind the marks of themselves imprinted 
upon the whole face of the community. It is the more 
common rendezvous of the idle and frivolous, the vile and 
thoughtless, who make up, in useless amusements, what 
they lack in generous thought and noble deed. There, 
too, gather the vicious, gamblers and rowdies, who aim to 
draw ^ livelihood out of society without contributing their 



33 

share to the general wealth. These hang around it like 
earrion birds around a recent battle field ; and give it all 
its importance and all its glory. 

Milton Streeter was often in that nins-pin alley. From 
ihe tin^of his recovery until the next spring, he might be 
seen hovering around it, setting up pins tor others to 
knock down. He received occasionally a few coppers, and, 
sometimes, a sip of grog (or his valuable services. And 
from these circumstances, he at length became greatly 
absorbed in the vocation. But time rolled rapidly away, 
and he found it would leave him penniless, shirtless and 
shoeless, unless he put forth some effort for a subsistence. 

The Spring of 1845 came, giorious with its warm and bla- 
zing sun. It called even the dormant powers of JMilton 
W. Streeter into unwonted activity. He was variously 
employ d by different individuals through several months, 
generally, however, in the open air. The fresh breeze 
was conducive to health and the elasticity of his spirits. 
He was free from that headache and melancholy that 
pressed so heavily on his life. But still he hung around 
the nine-pin alley, that resort of the idle, like a dark vo- 
racious bird, screeching, with an ominous utterance, for 
its carrion food. There he joined in the nightly orgies, 
and his voice of revel rose with the rest, in heavy inhar- 
monious barytones, like the low gutterals of a Bedouin 
Arab. His voice was never musical. It had none of 
that pleasant resonance which, even in double bass, falls 
with delightful sweetness upon the ear. It was gruff, and 
monotonous, and stood out from all other known sounds : 
and yet its vibrations were music to him. He loved the 
rough chiming of similar voices ; and it was a chorus of 
such, rendered more unearthly by some spirituous influ- 
ence, that formed the common music of that nine-pin al- 
ley, and often broke the stillness of the midnight air. 
Milton was frequently among these revellers, but still he 
performed some labor. 

At the intercession of his friends, he concluded, once 
more, to try his fortune in the Central cotton mill. It was 
a matter of policy, on the Dart of his father, who had paid 
2 k 



34 

9ome'debts of his contracting. Engaged in the mill, he 
would be less exposed to evil influence, and be likely to 
earn something 10 satisfy his creditors, or remunerate his 
father for the outlays made in his behalf. But somehow 
the fates seemed always against him. He seldom had 
difficulty with his employers, or their authorized agents; 
but he sometimes came in conflict with his companions 
in toil. The most frequent cause of such collision was 
iheir injudicious raillery. He could not bear it; nothing 
would, offend him sooner, or arouse his mind with more 
frantic rage. This infirmity was well known to all, yet 
they loved the sport, and would, therefore, let slip their 
jests. The effect on him was fearful. They had not 
sufficient discrimination to perceive it, nor sufficient phi- 
losophy, or philanthropy, to desist, even if they had 
seen it. 

With feelings soured from this and other causes, he 
became again a laborer in the mill. A fair-haired young 
man of mild temperament, but quick and rash in his re- 
sentments, toiled near him. They were mutual friends ; 
but Reuben Eastman was too young always to be discreet. 
Age and experience would have given a graver character 
to his movements. He obtained clandestinely a " drip- 
ping pan M belonging to the machine on which Streeter 
worked, and which was constantly requireu for service. 
Milton charged him with the trick, and demanded a re- 
turn of the article. He denied the charge and uttered 

the rapid challenge, You lie, G — d d m you ! Streeter 

was inflamed with wrath, and blows followed, accompa- 
nied with a storm of profanity. At length young East- 
man received from Streeter a severe kick in the abdomen 
which put him hors de combat, and thus the melee ended. 

The fight was ended, but not so with the leave-off. 
Eastman was disabled for a day or two, and, in the 
meantime, his friends, fearing the worst, were aroused 
with violent indignation. The matter grew with aston- 
ishing celerity. In less than twenty four hours, it had 
become equal in size to Jonah's gourd ; but was fai more 
rank and threatening in its appearance. A warrant, re- 



35 

fused by the village authorities, was obtained from an at- 
torney in an adjoining town. Streeter was arrested and 
brought before the magistrate for trial. But through the 
influence of E. Ammidown Esq., Hon Linus Childs, who 
was then a resident of the town, and some others, the 
whole affair was finally adjusted, on the payment of five 
dollars and the costs of prosecution. The father of 
Streeter came forward to his aid, paid the amount, and 
thus the difficulty was settled. 

Nevertheless it exerted a powerful influence upon the 
disordered mind of Milton W. Streeter. He was grow- 
ing more and more a misanthropist every day of his life. 
The impression that the world was all against him, which 
had been preying, like a canker worm, upon his mind, 
was deepening every day, and ripening into indignant 
hate. His chief companions were the young Reynolds, 
and Ben Irish. The affair with Eastman had thrown him 
again out of employment, and left him an idler, to con- 
sort with the idle and dissolute in the place. With his 
crone companions, he again united, and idled away his 
time in roaming the forests, or loitering about the haunts 
of dissipation. He became more improvident than ever, 
spending what money he could get, and even incurring 
debts for others to p^y. His debts were a source of trou- 
ble and vexation, both to himself and his lather; for when 
hard pressed, his father would sometimes voluntarily settl« 
them, on the condition that he would work and refund the 
amount. At such times, Milton exhibited real penitence, 
and promises were freely given ; but they were light as 
the wind, and broken almost as soon as made. 

The winter was spent in idleness, and the Summer of 
1846 appeared in its glory ; but its opening prospects 
were dark and unpropiiious, to the unfortunate young 
man. 

Hannah Streeter, the eldest sister of Milton, was a 
fair-haired, fine appearing, and kind hearted young girl. 
She had been his companion from child h >od ; and, gen- 
tle, gay, sportive, affabie and full of smiles, she had won 
his affections, and he loved her with the wildness of his 



36 

usual emotions. There was a charm about her young 
life that soothed his soul, and seemed, at intervals, to 
give him some snatches of a purer slate. He felt the in- 
fluence of that outward power, which had awakened such 
emotions in his own heart. In March of this year, Han- 
nah was married to a young man named Joseph L. 
Janes.* How far this circumstance influenced Ins sub- 
sequent life, no one can tell. His attachment to his sis- 
ter was, in a measure, conferred upon her husband also. 
And no one. among all his relations, his father perhaps 
excepted, I ad more influence over him than Mr. Janes. 
But Hanna -vas married, and the intimate connexion of 
" a brother c. jd a sister" were, in some degree, cut off. 
Milton was left more desolate than ever. 

He employed himself, somewhat, as a day laborer, 
working chiefly at farming ; but his time was much spent 
in the nine-pin alley. For about two months, he took 
charge of it, as a sub-officer under Mr. Nelson, who had 
rented the establishment. He seemed pressed, however, 
ever and anon, with a more settled melancholy. He was 
uncommunicative, choosing to be much alone , and often 
withdrew to some unfrequented spot, and remained there 
in solitude for hours together. Advice, counsel and en- 
treaty, given in the kindest manner, enraged him, and 
sometimes called forth paroxysms of great violence. In 
all these scene?, there was an uncommon lustre in his 
eyes — a wildness in his whole aspect, the import of which 
a careful observer could not fail to apprehend. Unfortu- 
nately his associates were too little observing, rind, in 
common with more intelligent minds, they misunderstood 
the man. He exhibited occasional fits of violence toward 
his mother, so much that she was afraid to be left alone 
in the house with him. 

The summer and autumn wasted away, and the ill fated 
young man, bound as by the charm of a serpent to his 
few crone companions, still hovered, darkling and deso- 

*The Court record spells the name Games ; but the pronunciation is ag- 
spelled above, and so Mr. Janea writes his name. 



37 

late around that perpetual nine-pin alley. There, amidst 
the sneers and jests of its rude worshipers, he could 
catch a few glimpses of pleasure, which seemed to flash, 
in lurid gleams, across the stormy waters of his inner life. 
So passed the events of his history. Another year had 
gone to join its predecessors in the past ; Milton Streeter 
lived in the world, but he seemed to belong to another 
race of beings. His beloved sister and her husband had 
removed from the town, and the last link in the chain of 
restraining affection seemed to have passed from his 
mind, and he stood alone. His parents remained, and 
fear, or reverence of his father, might subdue him ; but the 
tender affecii m which enchained his soul was gone. 

His avocation in the factory threw him much into the 
society of females, and of a class, too, calculated to attract 
his attention and even to win his heart. Factory opera- 
tives, spurned as they may be, are far from being destitute 
of real worth or personal attractions. Some of the finest 
specimens of female beauty, which this country affords, 
may be seen, gliding with elfish grace, around the busy 
machinery of a cotton mill. There is the dark eye with 
its speaking lustre, — the ruddy cheek rivaling the rose in 
its bloom ; and there, too, that witchery of expression, 
which no pen can describe — that half concealed waggish 
smile, playing in flashes beneath a veil of thoughtfulness, 
that rests in quiet benignity over the whole countenance. 
What with the graces of woman, and wonderful move- 
ments of the machinery, a cotton mill, in one aspect at 
least, appears like a fairy land ! Yet the charms of such 
a place, the attractions of such a class, the vivacity, and 
angelic kindness embodied there, failed to interest the 
dull heart of Milton W. Streeter. It may be that the 
cau.se was in himself. His own appearance, his sudden 
passions, his rash impetuosity, and his reputed ugliness, 
may have repulsed those very attractions that would oth- 
erwise have won his heart. 

He was not now, however, anions them. He had left 
the mill, and was out of the reach of the influence of their 
sharms. His business, what little he had, threw him into 



another class of community rough, vulgar, profane, want- 
ing intellect, and destitute of the graces of refined society. 
His joys were among this class ; in person, he was with 
them much, yet, in mind, he was isolated. He was not 
insensible to the charms of woman ; and still he stood 
alone. The whole world misunderstood him. Even his 
name stood out, in the common mind, as the representa- 
tive of the ugliness and repulsive characteristics presented 
to the outward observer. Farther than that, he had not 
been studied ; the profounder elements of his nature had 
not been investigated ; and few comprehended the char- 
acteristics of his inner life. Of course he had but little 
sympathy from the world ; but little friendship was felt for 
him, and but little charity exercised even by his most 
constant companions. The hoarse oaths, ribald curses, and 
perhaps threats and blows, took the place of kind words 
and gentle treatment. And here we will leave him for a 
few weeks, the sport of a most singular destiny. 



CHAPTER IV. 

Elvira W. Houghton — her personal appearance at the age of 
sixteen — residence — habits — learns the trade of dress-maker. 
She goes to Central Village, Southbridge — her admirers. 

" They depart, 
Light after light our glorious visions fade." 

In the northern part of the town of Woodstock, 
Conn., bordering upon the line between that State and 
Massachusetts, stands, by the roadside, a very neat look- 
ing farm house, somewhat worse for years, but having the 
appearance of comfort and convenience. The country 
around is picturesque and delightful. No high mountains 
or deep valleys, but gentle undulations, broken into rid- 
ges with precipitous rocks, and heie and there ponds of 
a dark hue, imbedded like diamonds in the surroundirtg 
hills, form some of its distinguishing features. The soil 
is productive, the slopes and ridges are covered, in Sum- 
mer, with green grass, and waving grain, or with beauti* 
ful forests of a young and thrifty growth. That farm 
house, on which time had imprinted its shrivelled fingers, 
stands in a secluded spot, — a companion indeed of a few 
other buildings situated near it, but retired from the con- 
fusion and turmoil of more populous places. 

The weeds grow rank in the unfrequented streets on 
which it stands. The dilapidated fences al<»ng the road- 
side serve, but poorly, as a defence of the adjoining field, 
against the depredation of geese running unyoked in the 
highwav. Yet they answered as an apology for better defen- 
ces. The domestic fowls ran unrestrained over the meadows 
and the pastures, occasionally dipping their unquiet toes 
into forbidden places of the cornfield or garden. The 
quiet sheep are nipping the sweet grass, on the hill-side, 
out there in the pastures. Every thing around bears the 
impress of quietness. There is not much energy, either 



40 

mental or physical, in the management of the farm. The 
land is cultivated, and the occupant lives, but not witK 
much evidence of thrift or of enterprise. 

Some ten or a dozen years ago, there might be seen a 
young girl of sixteen, laughing and leaping in the fresh- 
ness of youth, around that quiet home. She gave life and 
energy to all around ; there was more order there, — more 
economy, more enterprise, and industry, in the manage- 
ment ot that farm, than at a subsequent period. She was 
feir, — nay, beautiful in the bloom of her girlhood. Her 
dark hazle eye had little of that flashing lustre denoting 
quick perception combined with a haughty and unloving 
heart. It was mild, tender and expressive of deep leeling 
and ardent attachment. Her features were regular, her 
cheeks fresh, and her daik hair fell down in graceful ring- 
lets upon a neck of alabaster whiteness. Her dress was 
coarse, but tidy, and fitted for the station she occupied. It 
contrasted finely with her fair and interesting features. 
The very contrast set off every grace and every charm to 
the best advantage. Little do young girls think how 
much more interesting and lovely they appear, when ar- 
rayed occasionally in a coarser dress and with cheeks 
freshened by some active toil ! L* t no one despite labor ; — 
for labor and fresh air are the most effective beantifiers— 
the best cosmetics which ladies can use. 

It was Miss Elvira Walker Houghton, that lived, with 
her parents, in that retired mansion, and conned her first 
thoughts, and formed her first associations, among the 
flowers and green trees, the meadows and pastures of that 
quiet farm. And like girls usually, who are brought up 
on a farm, she was not only healthy and handsome, but 
innocent and light-hearted, as the birds of early spring. It 
is the irregularities of fashionable life, the contaminating 
touch of the world, and the wasting influence of factory 
labor, that robs them of their charms, and sometimes of 
their virtue also. 

That young girl, so innocent and so gay, was not des- 
tined to spend her life in this sequestered spot. Happj 
for her if she could have done so ! — happy if, in early life 



41 

she could have united her destiny with a worthy young 
man, and settled down in some secluded home like that of 
her childhood. But mysterious are the ways of Provi- 
dence. We cannot see the end from the beginning ! Her 
parents were not wealthy ; and, of course, it became ne- 
cessary that she should devote herself to some productive 
labor, at least, for tier own support, if nothing more. She 
chose to learn a " trade " — that of a dressmaker ; and af- 
ter devoting to it a lew months' labor, she became well 
instructed in the art and mystery thereof; and then went 
out to take her chances in the rude unsympathizmg world. 

The residence of her father, is between four and five 
miles from the Central village in Southbridge. The road 
leading to it is uneven, circuitous, and somewhat roman- 
tic. From the Central village, you take the road south, 
follow the left hand, pass that little mill about two miles 
out, and then ascend that heavy hill. You see that large 
white house nearly at the top, with barns of ample dimen- 
sion around it. It is the residence of that jolly specimen 
of fat humanity — Parker Morse, Esq. Unlike the race of 
fat men generally, he is far from being lazy. His large 
farm shows ample evidence of an industry that has been 
pursued for yeais ; and of a thrift, also, which is, at the 
same time, the result, and the reward of that industry. 
Every thing around his house, and all its "appurtenances" 
is tidy, and bears the marks of neatness. Every thing 
within is equally neat. He loves order. He loves also a 
good honest joke. He loves industry, and attends closely 
to his domestic affairs. He carries his surplus produce to 
market himself, delights in the sound of music and dance, 
does his own praying and minds his own business ! Would 
that the whole world were as free from sin as he. 

But do not stop too long moralizing over that fat old 
gentleman with jolly face and half closed eye. Pass on 
over the hill, and wind along the public highway; you 
will come at length to the youthful home, where that c'a.k 
haired maiden reveled in the gayety of youth. She was 
early transplanted from her paternal roof to the Central 
village, where she was destined to meet her horrible fate ! 



42 

Here she plied her busy fingers with the needle. For 
Beatness, accuracy and despatch, she was excelled by few 
in her vocation. She mingled wiih the gay ; she laughed 
merrily; her young heart joined in the song of innocent 
mirth ; and she loved to thread the mazy dance with 
her young companions Her friends and associates were 
not of a low order. She found them among the most re- 
spectable citizens of the place. She was pretty, sprightly 
in conversation for awhile, and by many admired. But 
unfortunately she was not proof against the arts and the 
wiles of flattery. She " loved the praise of men !" Fre- 
quently reminded of her fine features, she became daily 
more convinced of the perfections of her charms, and 
her face seemed to her all the fiirer, every time she con- 
sulted her mtrror. Her form and featuses were really 
fine, her dress was always tastefully arranged, and her 
whole demeanor, at first view, was dignified and not without 
its charms. 

But her intercourse with the world was unfavorable. 
She had not strength of mind to bear her exaltation. It 
required no uncommon discrimination to see, in her mind, 
the workings of unbounded vanity; and that fault, as in 
almost all other cases, was accompanied with deficiency 
of intellect. Here, doubtless, was the cause of her ruin. 
Female beauty always has its admirers. But it can com- 
mand no permanent admiration, or respect, or affection, 
except when combined with a good heart and a cultivated 
intellect. The young Elvira lacked at lenst one thing — 
namely, a power of discrimination. She was incapable of 
distinguishing between the favors of sycophancy and the 
true awards of merit. She was liable to deception in 
every form. She listened to her own praises with too 
much relish to avoid it. She had her admirers, but they 
passed away, like the morning dew. A brief hour of so- 
cial intercourse was often sufficient to change their admi- 
ration and awaken indifference, if not actual disgust. Her 
love of flattery increased greatly with the very food it fed 
apon. 

If among all her admirers, she had any suitors,they bore 



43 



usually that interesting relationship, but a very short tine. 
She L mueed receive the addresses of one young man- 
avervwouhyman-lora year or more; but suddenly 
these were discontinued, and no one but themselves knew 

Wh Time passed on, and she fluttered in her tinsel beauty 
still vennU nearer and more near, to that delicate and 
dreaded" ,.eV.od, when, having out-maidened all her early 
asoca.e , she would rema.n alone a withered remnant 
ofThe pas and the sport of the rising generation. To 
ne ove^w'eenu.g vani.y, she might have added another 
fault of a deeper and darker shade, which, now that she 
sleeps a murdered victim in the narrow house, it is not 

P X teltT place of her residence, lor a while, and 
Jl o,her P »heaue of industry. The reasons which 
Seed ihia procedure are not fully developed. She spent 
"erne time in Springfield ; but, not succeeding to her sat- 
kfaction she returned again to Southbndge, which she 
h d now - long considered her home. She renewed her 
past avocationsT and readily found employment among her 
old friends and patrons. They received her with cordial- 
ity and besiowed their usual attentions. She loved the 
Society of her own sex ; bni still more to be noticed cher- 
iS admired and flattered by the other sex. And this 
feelina crew upon her even faster than age It was a val- 
3eVea,u,e to her, to have a respectable young man 
invi e ner to attend a ball, and join with her in the " giddy 
dance' It was not indeed wor.h half as much as the 
hone of heaven itself; but she would speak of such an 
honor with a calm gratification, which felly evinced the 
lalue she set upon it ! Might it not lead to a relationship 
more dear and interesting? That such thoughts constantly 
obtruded ihemselves upon her mind, few acqainted with 
her can doubt. , T . 

Yet she was choice of the company she kept 
l0 wer grades of young men, and especially 'hose of coarse 
attire and uncouth manner,, were not her favorites. She 
wu not attracted, even by real worth, if it happened to be 



44 

concealed under some coarse, rough-looking garment, 
adapted to the business of its wearer. As she delighted 
herself to flit around in gay attire, bedecked with span- 
gles and frills, and gorgeous ornamenis of every kind, 
so she was pleaded with the attentions of young men well 
dressed, and sought the society of such in preference to 
any others. 

In this glow of her young heart, she would have looked 
upon Milton Streeter as beneath her attention. To be called 
Mrs. Streeter, would have grated harshly upon her ears. 
The very thought of marrying him, would have thrown 
her delicate sensibilities into a paroxysm of nervous tre- 
mors ; and would have called out one of those simpering 
exclamations for which she was particularly distinguished ! 
But no one can unml the scroll of destiny, and read be- 
forehand the vicissitudes of fortune. No one can foresee 
the changes, from high to low, to which humanity is sub- 
ject in its "journey of life." The buoyant young heart 
might shrink from its destiny, if that destiny were revealed 
to it in early years. The very aspiration of the soul after 
greatness, so just in itself, too often begets a contempt for 
meaner things. Withering age, a change of circumstan- 
ces, and impassioned importunities will, sometimes, work 
wonders on the heart of a young female, bringing down 
the spirit from its lofty flight, to an atmosphere of more 
sober and chastened reality. How mellow had become 
the heart of Miss Elvira W. Houghton, and how much it 
had been softened by the arrows of Cupid it were impos- 
sible to tell. 

But whatever might have been her vanity — whatever 
her love of dress, however weak her intellect, or frail her 
virtue, she was really kind-hearted, generous, ardent in 
her attachment to friends, and though, perhaps, occasion- 
ally petulant, yet on the whole she was gentle and inof- 
fensive. If she was at any time disturbed in her temper, 
it was oftener from a love of display and an anxiety to 
appear well in company, than from any inherent meckan- 
sete — maliciousness or turpitude of disposition. 

Time, however, is rapid in its marches, and never stopt 



45 

for man or maid. The sun and the moon did indeed 
stand still at the command of a warrior chief of Israel, 
that his marshalled hosts might bathe the sword in the 
blood of the Amorites. But they never have been known 
to stop in their rapid course to preserve the maiden's face 
from the wrinkles gathering upon it by the hand of time. 
Virtue and good habits constitute the surest safeguard 
against the deflorations of age. The light hearted Elvi- 
ra, by some girlish mischance, might, like the fading rose, 
have come prematurely to wear the blight of older years. 
Judge her not severely ; many a young Miss has commit- 
ted indiscretions, or suffered from the extravagant de- 
mands of fashion. Suspicion, without crime, is oftea 
sufficient to blast the character of woman. The fame 
and fortune of Elvira were, in later life, settling down to 
a lower level. Her name became connected with the 
idle joke, not so much for vice, as for foolish vanity. 
Indeed, her friends generally had full confidence in her 
virtue and honesty of purpose. 



CHAPTER V. 

Streeter's first acquaintance with Miss Houghton — the remarka- 
ble circumstances which led to it — he becomes Miss U'f 
suitor — his proposal of marriage— Miss H. accepts it with 
hesitation — Miss He regrets her rash vow — Streeter urges his 
suit, and is again accepted — the nuptial day set— Miss H. 
again' rejects Streeter, on the day of their marriage — Street- 
er's entreaties — Miss H's father intercedes with her in Street- 
er's behalf — Miss H. consents — Streeter's marriage. 

Away! vain mockery of a bridal wreath! 

In this condition of mind and of character, the ill-fated 
girl reached the summer of 1847. Every prospect of 
marriage had slipped, like so many tantalizing spirits, one 
after another from her presence. And each, in turn, had 
left her more lonely and desolate, and widowed in her 
tender thoughts than ever. She still retained her attach- 
ment to the place. Its scenery was delightful, and the 
memory of former friendships was pleasant. She loved, 
indeed, the old farm house, where she had spent her earlier 
years. She loved her parents, and it was very pleasaut 
occasionally to visit the paternal home. But she clung, 
still more, to the place where she had spent so many hap- 
py years ; and, though the scene had changed, she still 
loved to look upon the beautiful outline, and watch the 
picture as it faded from her view. There were sad things, 
however, even in the paternal home, which might have 
added to the bitterness of her reflections, and made her 
feel still more the loneliness of her situation. Her moth- 
er — the light of that mother's mind, had long been 
obscured ; and what unhappy events occurred with refe- 
rence to her may be left unrecorded. She had not been 
able to give comfort and solace to the daughter ; and other 
eircumstances, connected with the household of her 
father, must have exerted a painful influence on the deli- 
sate sensibilities of Elvira. 



47 

At this time, however, an event occurred, destined, by a 
fortuitous concarrence of circumstances, to work a change 
in the whole course of her life. Her mother, who, de- 
prived of reason, had long been deprived of the power of 
discharging the duties of a moiher, sickened and died. 
Elvira was sent for to attend the funeral. Having no 
means of conveyance herself, a carriage was provided to 
eonvey her to the paternal abode. It was a sad time for 
the broken-hearted girl. She loved her mother. She 
wept when her mother departed to the un«een world. 
Painful as had been the spell which had enchained her 
mother's mind, and deprived Elvira of a mother's counsel 
she was still anxious to be present and join in the solem- 
nities of the funeral occasion. The owner of the car- 
riage was required to send a man to take charge of the 
sorrowing girl, and return with the carriage, leaving her 
at her father's house. Those in his employ were all en- 
gaged in other matters connected with his business, and 
could not go By one of those singular fortuitous events, 
incident to human life, Milton Streeter happened to be 
near, lounging about, in one of his idlest and most mel- 
ancholy moods. Solicited to take the place of driver, and 
convey Elvira to her destination, he gladly accepted. He 
had nothing else to do; and the novelty of the occurrence 
might relieve him from the weight of sadness then press- 
ing upon his mind. Accordingly he seated himself by 
the side of the mourning maid, himself the most melan- 
choly of the two. It was early summer, (the exact date 
is not ascertained.) The trees were green, the meadows 
verdant, the breezes fresh and exhilirating, and the do- 
mestic animals traversed the pastures contented and hap- 
py. It was a season too, when men might have been 
happy. Doubtless many people were so — others were 
not. A thousand causes of discontent operate on many 
minds to prevent enjoyment. 

Mihon and the maid by his side were among the unhappy. 
They started off together. Silence had thrown its sombre 
shadows over them, and so they passed on. But soon that 
silence was broken ; — with what mysterious words, or 



48 

what proffered and reciprocated affection, no one can tell. 
They continued their course. Sorrow tnd given a mel- 
low sweetness to the voice of Elvira. Its tones fell de- 
lightfully upon the ears of the listener. The interest in- 
creased, until a mysterious power had thrown its chains 
around the heart of the charmed young man, and laid him 
a captive at the shiine of love. 

This was a new feeling. The curtain had been drawa 
aside and let him into new secrets in the unwritten his- 
tory of human nature. Hitherto, he had felt a brotherly 
attachment to his beloved sister Hannah ; but Hannah 
was now gone, and the pent up emotions of a lone heart 
sought for some object on which to pour themselves in 
their out floe ing. The first impressions are often the 
deepest and most lasting. Milton loved. He had never 
before felt that emotion for womankind. It was a new 
life. He had entered, as it were, a drawing room, out of 
the dull monotony of a loufer's existence. Nay, more ; 
he had entered, perhaps unbidden, into the private parlor 
of tender affection. And there he stood, like a clown in 
a king's palace, amazed and enraptured at the wonders 
disclosed. He loved ; but it was with the same sudden 
and wild impetuosity which he exhibited in all his emo- 
tions 1 His love was ardent, vehement, and sought wild- 
ly the possession of its object. What words passed be- 
tween him and the mourning Elvira, cannot now be re- 
corded. Whether it were the sorrowing tones that fell 
from her soft voice, lamenting the death of her mother, or 
whether a propitious spirit hovering in air had impressed 
upon the mind an emotion never before fell ; it is certain 
that he was caught — blissfully, but irretrievably captiva- 
ted, and resistance was vain ! 

The funeral ceremonies passed off, and Milton returned 
home alone. He waited anxiously for the return of Elvira, 
and eagerly sought her society. He soon became her 
suitor, and his addresses were received, not without hesi- 
tation, and dread, and reluctance, on the part of the 
doubting girl. The horoscope was unfavorable. The 
events of their acquaintance were ominous of evil. And 
it was sad, too, to think she had fallen so low. But her 



49 

©wn desolate condition, the anxieties that had governed 

her life, and the entreaties of Milton, at length prevailed. 
She smiled favorably, and blessed the few hist interviews 
of the lovers' life. 

Thus commenced, ho urged his suit with all the ardor 
and impetuosity .of his own feelings, lie could ill brook 
delays, ti is life whs of'ien inter?treaked with hurry and 
bustle, which seldom, however, accomplished much. But 
in this ca^e he persevere J. It was his hist affair of love, 
and the impression was more permanent! In a few weeks 
he hid proffered his heart and his hand to the yielding 
fair one. Sue hesitated, sadness came over her afresh. 
Tne future was portentous. It was Milton S'reeter, who 
had nude the, proposal — Milton, whose name had been 
bandied, like a foot ball, among the village jesters ! But 
at leu nil she consented. It required a great moral effort, 
but still she consented to take him " for better or worse,*' 
tlfroiijh their journey of hie ; and preparations were made 
to consummate the tender vows Days flew by and events 
were ripening for the result. Meantime the reluctant girl 
repented of her rash assent, and, with an instability for 
which she had been distinguished, retracted her hasty 
promise. Their acquaintance had been too short. Th-e 
promise had followed too closely after the bliss of wooing. 
She wished for time to reflect. But this was a terrible 
stroke to her impassioned inamorato, He was ovec- 
wbelmed with grief. It was a stroke which he had little 
expected, and his impetuosity was aroused to the highest 
point. He again sought out the maid of his love. She 
retreated before him, like the timid deer. But, with a 
voice rendered eloquent by despair, he breathed his tender 
love into her listening ear, He prevailed ; she again con- 
sented to be his own, and the nuptial day was appointed. 
That day arrived. Milton repaired to the paternal home 
of his plighted fair one, It was all done in haste. There 
he found his beloved Elvira, trembling and pale, awaiting 
his coming, and yet dreading his approach Both had 
made some flight preparation. Things were now read) ■ 
friends had gathered there to witn§*§ the ceremony ; thte 
4 



50 

company was arranged, and the parson had seated himself 
in their midst. 

But poor Elvira saw all these arrangements with a 
bursting heart. A fate awaited her ; — an undefinable 
presage of evil weighed upon her spirit. She shrunk from 
the encounter, anxious to avoid the fearful results. Mil- 
ton saw her reluctance, and spoke soothing] , hut tears 
were the only reply : and these but too pi ' rejected 
his suit. She had promised, indeed, but bow could she 
perform 1 Again aroused with impetuous love he per- 
sisted. He ur^ed his suit with redoubled vehemence, and 
with an eloquence which love alone can inspire. Despair 
sat upon his countenance, and that unmeaning exptessiou 
which had so long tested upon it, was now completely ab- 
sorbed in the wild delirium of his emotion. He even 
threatened — as she herself afterwards stated — to commit 
suicide unless she yielded to his wishes. Hei'e was a 
stroncr testimony of his affection. He had no thought of 
injuring, even a hair of her sweet head. But melancholy 
weighed so heavily upon him, that he would rather die 
than live without her. 

The father, also, of the reluctant, girl interceded, and 
anxiously exerted his own persuasive power to gain her 
consent. Dark suspicions have, doubtless in justly, inti- 
mated that her condition, through other instrumentalities 
than Milton Streeier, demanded her immediate entrance 
upon the marriage relations. These, however, should be 
treated as a mere idle rumor. 

Persuasions from all quarters at length prevailed. She 
again consented ; and, standing pale and trembling amidst 
the nuptial party, she was duly and lawfully immolated, — 
the faded fair one became Mrs. Streeter. 

But sad was the effect upon the heart of the frail maid- 
en. She wept aloud. The bridal evening was made a 
scene of sadness. Even the grave clergyman sympa- 
thized ; and the whole assembly was moved with the sin- 
gular spectacle. It resembled more the solemnities of a 
funeral than the bliss of a bridal day. It was a scene 
portentous of a fearful fate. Calmed at length, she 



5i 

seemed to prepare her mind for her new relation, and; 
gather the energies of her soul for the conflict 01 coming 
events. 

Thus passed away the 16th day of August 1847, when 
Milton W. Sireeter and Elvira W. Houghton, were law- 
fully married — " made one !" The prize had been 
gained, it was borne away, and Milton was happy. He 
was linked to the world by a new relation ; and he com- 
menced its toils and duties again, with a better purpose, 
and a higher confidence of success. And had he removed 
immediately from the place and entered upon some honor- 
able employment, where both he and his wife were com- 
paritively unknown, he might have met with a better 
fate. But the ways of Providence are past our compre- 
hension. 



CHAPTER VI. 

Curious remarks upon Streeter's marriage, by certain individu- 
als in his neighborhood — Mrs. Streeter's fondness lor attending 
balls — her husband's opposition — his jealousy of H. Bear on — 
his threats and bad treatment of his wile — unhappy discove- 
ry — married life. 

"Quand 1' homme commence a raisonner, il cesse de sentir " 

The news of the marriage soon spread in I he village, 
rnd became a subject of common remark, in some of the 
gossiping circles in that strange place 

"JVlrs. Prindle, 1 have got some news to tell you— the 
greatest that you have heard for a long lime." 

" You don't say so. \\ hat is it I 1 

"Millou Streeter is married!" 

" Milton Streeter! well, there! who upon airth could 
he find to have him ?" 

' You can't guess!" 

" Oh I— ah ■■ — thei e, v tbat f s just like you! Who is it? 
I didn't kmjw as tl ere was any body, in all creation, fool 
enough to marry Milton Streeter! Who did lie fi:id?" 

" Elvira Houghton." 

"Well there! if that don't beat ! Who would have 
thought it? But I always knew she was a simple girl; it 
might he just like her." 

Both parties agreed it was very singular that Elvira 
Houghton should have lowered herself so much as to 
marry Wilton Streeter. And this seemed to be the com- 
mon imptession in the place. It was a matter of wonder 
and surprise to many, if pot to all, and yet there was not 
so much difference in the compass of their minds, as the 
expression might seem to indicate — not so much even in 
their respective measure of moral worth. But, on other 
points, there were differences, great and perplexing ; and 
(from these sprang, iu a measure, the storms of their mar- 
lied life, / 



53 

Mrs. Streeter remained at her father's house and among 
her friends for some time alter their marriage. Millou 
was truly a fond and floating husband. I tie brief period 
of u fii>t impressions" passed pleasantly away. Late in 
the fall, he came with his wife to the Central Village, and 
went to board with his own fit her. A few months had 
worn away mum of the novelty of "his new situation, and left 
him standing among the sober facts of his life. The poe- 
try of wedded life had all been read over, much of it 
re-read, and some of the most interesting paits committed 
to memory. And they both began, as if by natural in- 
stincts, to con over the sober scenes before ihem. They 
turned over a leaf, and began to read the graver sections 
of prose, studying particularly the c didactic pieces," oc- 
casionally looking at the " pathetic," which gave rise to a 
shower of tears, .until at length they reached the knotty 
questions of mutual duty, social philosophy, and domestic 
econ »my. There i hey found, to their mutual amazement, 
that they were utterly unfilled for each other. 

Elvira was fond of show, and dress, and young com-' 
pany, and afternoon balls, and evening dances ; while 
Milton's chief enjoyment consisted in his clog and gun, 
and the perpetti il rumble of that profitless nine-pin alley. 
Dress wiih him was a matter of mdiffeience. Of course, 
the young wife wished for her old enjoyments: and the 
young husband cou'd not sympathize with her. On this 
point beg in an issue, and a difference between them If 
indulged m her wishes, she was very pleasant ; if not, she 
was disposed to petulance, and sometimes gave utterance 
to frivolous complaints. It was the worst and most un- 
wise ihintr she could possibly have done, both for her own 
interest and that of her husband. He had no fortitude, or 
philosophy, to bear his own cares and troubles, much less 
the weijht that was laid upon him by his better half. 
Every complaint and every' censure, only inflamed his 
feelings, or sunk him deeper in melancholy. Mutual 
grievances had commenced, and neither had the wisdom 
or tact to control them. 

Another circumstance added fire to the combustible 



54 

materials of which Streeter was composed. His wife t 
whether justly or not, had a sort of sinister reputation, 
half concealed, among young men in the community. 
Milton was credulous. He wastold of her reputed foibles, 
and his jealousy was aroused; especially whtn some of 
the most fun-loving pretended thar, by his faithless spouse, 
either they, or their friends, had been honored, 

" With favors loving, sweet and precious." 

Such pretensions were as false as they were mischie- 
tous. They served only to inflame his wrath, and make 
him swear and rave like a mad man. And this was sport 
to those engaged in it ; but cruel, very cruel lor him and 
his simple-hearted companion. It caused them many bit- 
ter pangs. 

Nor was she herself always prudent on that subject. 
She sometimes added confirmation to his previous con- 
rictions, by pretending that many young men were deeply 
enamoured of her, and, had she not given her hand to 
him, she might have entered a more advantageous mar- 
riage relation. These were boastings exceedingly mis- 
placed, producing a terrible effect on the sensitive mind 
of S reeter already disturbed, and fretted by his previous 
troubles. 

There was a dancing school in town during the winter, 
and she was anxious to attend. He was unwilling, both 
from want of funds and want of taste for such enjoy- 
ments. She, however, persisted, importuned, entreated, 
and shed tears; but all to no purpose, i>he told him, at 
length, that several young men were anxious for it ; — had 
invited her to attend and would come after her. She 
named one or two, who she said had promised to do so. 
Still he was inexorable. Hard words followed, tears 
gushed from his wife, and Milton was sad. At length he 
yielded, so far as to attend the dancing school once or 
twice, and afterwards rode out with her several times for 
her gratification. But complaints and petulance had thus 
commenced, and they continued, increasing daily, until 
the fatal catastrophe that severed lorever the marriage 
relations. , 



55 

He boarded wilh his father for some months ; but his 
married life was far from being pleasant. The whole 
scene was stormy and unpropitious. Curtain lectures 
were frequently given and received by each party. These 
usually commenced soon after retiring to rest, and often 
continued so Jong as to exhaust the patience of Milton. 
Who was most to blame, cannot be ascertained ; but they 
made him very unhappy. 

On one occasion, he rose from his bed, and, half- 
dresse 1. fled from the troublesome scene, and sought the 
solemn stillness of moonlight, in the quiet of a M bush pas- 
ture," not far off. It was late in the evening. He re- 
mained quite a long time in that solitude. His father, 
who vvas yet at work in the mill, was sent for. He start- 
ed in pursuit of his wandering sou, lound hint walking the 
pasture and weeping. It was sometime before he could 
be persuaded to return to the house and resume his ac- 
customed quiet. No inquiries could draw from him the 
reasons of this singular conduct. A sadness more deep 
than ever, came over him, and if asked concerning it, ha 
either refused to answer, or barely muttered something 
about ll trouble." Every trouble seemed to increase his 
headache; and, with the increase of that, his wildness 
and eccentricity increased. 

H:s parents and relatives saw him exhibit no unkind*. 
ness towards his wife It is incredible, however, that one of 
his peculiar moral organization should n<»t sometimes treat 
h^r with severity, especially if he received any considerable 
real or fancied provocation. Yet the family of his mur- 
dered wife are disposed to acquit him of unjust severity 
towards her. Her own father appeared as a witness for 
the defence at the trial of Streeter. It is very singular 
that among th-^ relations on both sides there snould be so 
manifest a disposition to sympathize with him. Fact 
have come to the knowledge of others, that show him ei- 
ther wantonly severe, or else morally insane. He was 
certainly a very unhappy man — unhappy from the de- 
pressing influence of his constitutional headache, the ex- 
citement of jealousy, the feeling that the world was 



56 

against him, and the jeers and countless provocations of 
the unthinking multitude around him. His very misery 
would naturally sour his disposition, and make him any- 
thing but an agreeable companion. 

But now a scene of a deeper and darker import is fast 
approaching The events of a wonderful Providence are 
weaving and interweaving, into a complete texture; around 
the nnfortun ite couple, more delicate, and yet •more fatal 
than the spider's web. They remained not long as 
boarders in his father's house. The intercourse between 
Elvira and other members of the household, might not 
have been uf I he most agreeable kind. Towards spring, 
they went to board wnh a Mr. Wheeler, who lived just 
north of the Mam street, in thai two story house, — a new 
building, with large semi-circular porticos on enhVr side. 
Here they remained tit] Spring, when, having hired a ten- 
ement ol Air. D. A. Hawks, a short distance souili of the 
main street, they removed into it and commenced house- 
keeping. 

Set up for themselves, it became necessary for them to 
look in to all the minutiae | enabling to ihe administra- 
tion Of the ''independent sovereignty " of a family. But 
here new perplexities arose Neither of them was fitted 
to discharge these duties. 'The constant provision neces- 
sary lor supply, was often exhausting to tht ir limited 
treasury. Sweeter himself was not at that lime in the re- 
ceipt of an extensive revenue. Me was not disposed to 
apply himself, in a way, to supply the deficit. His wife 
was more industrious. 

She would ply tier needle, and busy herself with perse- 
vering application fill the benefit of herself and her im- 
provident husband. But her efforts were insufficient to 
eppply the constant necessities of a family. II' i linn oo- 
casionally worked as a day laborer, but with no constancy 
of effort. Of course, his income was small, and his liv- 
ing must correspond. The unhappy w ite might not al- 
ways have had enough in the house to prepare a full repast 
for her tired and hungry spouse, on his return from a 
wearisome chase in the forest. 



57 

To add to their perplexities, they u took boarder?," — 
the two younj Reynolds. These young men seemed to 
hover, like evil genii, around the pathway of Milton 
Streeter. Kindred in i heir testes and feelings, they were 
his frequent companions. They were not probably the 
most profitable, as hoarders, for ekin^ out a narrow income. 
But such as i hey weie, Ihey lived upon liirn ; — wheiher 
from i he preference of his wile, or his own choice, it is 
not possible m say. They will soon appear more inti- 
mat -ly connecied with » liis dirk history. 

In »he meantime, the busy tongue of certain fun -loving 
flpiriis, in the neighborhood, whs not idle. Somehow many, 
who sfood in more elevated places in life, .-on enn es des- 
cended, from meir own proud positions, to j->in in the mirth, 
and utter their jokes hi the expense of poor Milton Streeter. 

It is the privilege of fra«l humanity to " laugh find be 
fat !" Tins expression involves the necessity of cheerful- 
ness, and occa>ional merriment, in the various stages of 
human history. Not hum ministers so much to social en- 
joyment — nothing is so calculated to afford relaxation, and 
relieve a mind overpressed with business, and fit it for 
those graver and profounder efforts which are to work out 
its sublimes! destiny. He is a poor pjnlosopber, who 
would repress every outburst of laughter, and veil the lace 
in perpetual gloom, with a view of moral and religious im- 
provement! The young, in particular, must have their 
pastimes ; but. in all cl isses, the pleasant smile and hearty 
laugh are indicative of thai staie of mind best suited to 
conduct the social relations of life. 

Tne b^st gifts of Providence, however, are liable to 
abuse, Depredations may be committed, by merriment, 
upon that same social state which needs merriment as an 
element of its vitality. And thus an element of good is 
converted into an instrument of evil. 

Milton Sfre< ter had long been a target for all the fun- 
loving in his n< ighborhnod. Their sallies had now be- 
come more fieqmnt than ever, without regard to the 
results upon his disordered mind. Scarcely could he ap- 
pear in the streets but some one was ready to sttike him 



58 

with jests and raillery, generally reflecting upon the honor 
of hi* wife. So completely was the thread from the dis- 
tafTof destiny wound around him, that he seemed irrecov- 
erably involved in the toils of fate. His jealousy was so 
excited, at times, that he was unwilling to be out of sight 
of his own house. On one occasion, at work at haying, 
he refused to rake hay on the side of the cart out of sight 
of his house. This subjected him to new ridicule, and 
the ridicule rendered his passions more intense. 

All these things were the richest sport to his tor- 
mentors. They little thought that what was ll sport to 
them was death to him M — at least, was producing terrible 
results upon his hapless wife. 

That nine-pin alley, also, still engrossed his attention ; 
and formed at once the source of his joys, and the evil 
spirit ministering to his misfortunes. He hung around it, 
as by an irresistable fascination, allured by the voice of 
his compeers, and yet rendered furious, by the taunts 
aimed at his wife. He was the fool in all-fools play, and 
acted his part with most admirable naivttte. 

But time was wearing away. The summer months had 
again appeared with their heat and their exuberance. At 
this time, another source of* trouble and misfortune, for 
Streeter and his wife, was developed. A man named 
Enoch Bacon, formerly a resident of the place, suddenly 
appeared there again. Mrs. Streeter, during the life- 
time of Bacon's wife, had been employed in his family; 
and their acquaintance was both honorable and pleasant. 
Having returned on a brief visit from a residence in Cuba, 
he, naturally enough, sought the former friend of his wife, 
to do some necessary needle work. Accordingly, lie call- 
ed at the house and requested her to do it. Willi this re- 
quest she cheerfully complied, unconscious of any wrong. 
It so happened, however, that he called in the absence of 
Streeter. This fact was soon brought to the ears of his 
constant tormentors, and, thereupon, a battery was opened 
upon him from that quarter. It was intended, of couise, 
as mere *port, but its effect was astounding. Every out* 
burst of the boisterous mirth occasioned by it, conveyed 



69 

a deadly pang to the bosom of his poor wife. His jeal- 
ousy was aroused to the higher point against Bacon. Un- 
fortunately, he believed all that whs told him, and his rage 
was intense. He swore that Bacon should never again 
enter his house. When told, (alselv, that he had been 
there during his absence, he raved, like one msid, and 
went home in that p'ight only to abuse his unoffending 
companion. This had been done repeatedly. 

One evening, returning from labor, he brought home a 
large club, and set it aside, swearing that if Bacon en- 
tered his door, he would beat his brains out wiih it. His 
wife afterwards exhibiied that club to the neighbors, and 
told them what use he had sworn to make of it. This 
strange infatuation of Stteeter. prevented his wife from 
performing the needle work, which she had so innocently 
engaged to do. And thus the cruel mirth of his tormen- 
tors, not only imbruted hisov\n mind and brought woe 
upon his family, but also deprived him, in a measure, of 
the means of a livelihood through the labors of his wife. 

Bacon, however, made but a short stay in the place, 
His departure was a relief to the disturbed mind of Mil- 
ton ; but the brutal feeling, so greatly aroused, was not 
easily allayed. It still remained, in all iis force, to be 
transferred to any other object that might chance to cross 
his path. 

14 Do you see that?" said a sharp-faced, respectable 
looking man, holding out to Sueeter a small piece of 
money. l4 Take it and give it to your wile ; she will 
know what it means." That was enough. A fresh im- 
pulse was given to his already maddened jealousy. He 
swore by rule — he had instructors enough among his con- 
federates, with finishing examples from higher life — his 
rage was terrible, but he raved to the high glee of those 
who happened to see him Yet they saw not the issue They 
did not follow him even in thought to his home, where, 
blinded by the frenzy of his ra^e, he abused his companion 
without even telling her the cause. While they were laugh- 
ing and repeating the story of his rage, as a capital joke, she 
was suffering its terrible results, without even knowing the 



60 



grounds of his violence. If the respectable and the disrepu- 
table lovrrs of fun, in that place, had let him alone — or, if 
they had taken as much pains to a.-suage, as to inflame, his 
jealousy and his indignation, Milton Mreefer might not 
now have been a murderer, and his wife might not have 
been invested with so bloody a winding sheet. Tiny are 
not to be held guiltless, who even in merriment, inflame 
the passions of others ; especially, when they kn>w the 
disastrous results of such merriment, on those ajainsl 
whom its shifts are directed. The results were well 
known in the case of Sneeier, but the course still was 
followed-, with a fatal perseverance. Even bis joking tor- 
mentors became, \\\ length, enraged at him, because he 
was enraged at their jokes and their lolly. 

But alter al l , he was an unsafe man to live at large in 
the community. He was ill calculated to enduie the 
sharp conflicts which every man must meet with, in his 
journey through the world. He threatened violence to 
Mr. Hawks, and 10 burn his buildings, because he sued 
him for debt and ejected him from the tenement he had 
occupied for a few mouths. And there is certainly gound 
of apprehension, even now, that, if he were lei loose, he 
.would put that threat in execution. 

The few months spent in the tenement of Mr. Hawks, 
developed a series of matrimonial storms, but little credita- 
ble to either party. The outward influence already men- 
tioned, added to the natural incompatibility of their res- 
pective tempers, left only brief intervals of sunshine and 
repose. Yet Milton still loved his wife. Even his very 
quarrels often terminated in anguish to his own heart, and 
in efforts at reconciliation He had a strange mixture of 
conflicting elements in ids composition — alternately gloomy 
and credulous, reckless, brutal and affectionate! His 
headache continued ; his boarders weie eating out hi* 
substance; his melancholy became more settled and pro- 
found; he still imagined that the world was against htm, 
and he hid even, already, made an attempt to take hi> own 
life. He cared not to live, for the world baa no comfort 
for him. 



61 

By the peculiar construction of his tenement, the sleep- 
ing room of himself and his wife was contiguous k.#lhat 
•3cupied by Mr. and Mrs. Hawks. The two apartments 
were separated only by a thin partition ; and conversation 
in the one, might, in ordinary circumstances, be distinctly 
heard in the other. Of course, Mr Hawks and his wife, 
became the unwilling listeners to many things, which gave 
them an impression exceedingly unfavorable lo Milion 
Streeter. People differed, as to the relative amount of 
blame which should be attached to eiiher party. But 
Mr. Hawks and his family were very decided, in throw- 
ing the blame chiefly, it not wholly, upon him. lie was 
governed much by animal instincts — was often cruel and 
unfeeling towards his associates, and would sometimes 
impose burdens upon his wife, even in ill heaUh, which, 
with »ier delicate constitution, she was but poorly able to 
bear. 

But the strange doings of that private room, revealed to 
ear* unwilling to hear — the curtain lectures — the cease- 
less complainings — the profanity and vulgar language — 
the mutual crimination and recrimination — the violence, 
threats, sobs, shrieks, censures and supplications — these 
are things belonging entirely to the unwritten history of 
that hapless pair, and are not to be recorded in this p!ace„ 
The) had their effect upon the minds of the reluctant lis- 
teners, and exhibited a most deplorable state of family di$- 
tensions. 

Streeter, however, was a very miserable man. His 
41 troubles, " real or imaginary, perplexed him and made 
him violent ; and his violence reacted upon himself and 
made him still more miserable. With all the influences 
operating ajainst him, he could not be otherwise. Per- 
haps he might have threatened to murder his wife. It 
does not so appear in evidence, nor does she appear to 
have been apprehensive of the result. YYt she often free- 
ly spoke to the neighbors of her feelings and her convic- 
tions. At one time, as she relates, he kept a rope in the 
house on purpose to hang himself. He had, aL^o, a razor 
kept iu the room where she slept, which she supposed was 



62 

designed to cut her throat. She also told the neighbor! 
that lie had threatened 10 kill her, and then either hang 
himself, or cut his own iroat. That he had entertained 
the purpose of commi ing suicide, and had even 01 ce 
made the attempi, app< r.> in evidence before the couit, 
at the time of his trial. 

The constant quarr '< of this unhappy couple were, 
without doubt, accompanied w.th some threats of violence. 
Many incidents go to cdhhrm what might naturally be ex- 
pected from their peculiar ispositions brought in conflict 
with each other. Enraged, one day, Streeter cane in 
wiih an axe in his hand, and brandished the fearful in- 
strument about the head of his wife. A little girl, from 
one ol the neighbors, happened to be present and saw the 
iearful display, which she supposed was done in playful- 
ness. Loud words ft Jo wed on the part of the hu>band 
and wife. The girl saw a barrel of soap, just made, 
standing close by. *' Mrs. Streeter," said she, " if I was 
in your place, I would dip his head in that soap barrel \ n 
This remark so pleas-id the quarreling pair, that the y both 
burst into a loud Jaug'i, and thus the matter was ended. 

Things, however, had now come to such a pass, that 
Mr. Hawks could endure it no longer ; and, ol conse- 
quence, he gave his brawling tenants leave to find for 
themselves another abode. Sireeter was greatly incensed 
on receiving this intimation ; threats were uttered, and 
some tears were entertained that he would, in some way, 
do violence to the property or person of Mr. Hawks. He 
did purpose to girdle some young fruit trees belonging to 
Mr. H., and sought the services of a lad in the neighboi- 
hood to assist him in doing it. The lad, however, de- 
clined the villainous aid, and afterwards revealed the mat- 
ter to some of his friends. 

After some exertions, Streeter succeeded in obtaining 
another tenement, and made preparations to remove. His 
goods were soon put in order, loaded upon the proper ve- 
hicle, and started ofT. There v\ as something melam holy 
and ominous in that departure, as indicating the uncer- 
tain future, in no wise pleasant to the philanthropist or 



63 

the phTo^opher. The condition, circumstances aid 
treatment of the unfortunate pair, were in no way calcu- 
lated to make them better citizens, or teach them the art 
of being happy in each others' society. Every Jink in the 
chain of events seemed to be more tearfully lata!, and 10 
bind them by an irresistible destiny to the terrible result. 
Follow them, reader, as they pass along towards their 
new home. It was on the right bank ol the Qumebaug 
river, nearly a mile below, at a place called Columbia 
tillage. 



CHAPTER VII. 
Columbia Village — its people — Streeters jealousy — abuse of 
his wife — she resolves to make complaint before a magis- 
trate — her stratagem to deceive her husband. 
"O life! thou art a gulling load, 
Along a rough and weary road, 
To wretches such as 1!'" 

From the Central Village in Southbridge, go down, if 
you please, the main sireet towards the east. There are 
several tine dwelling houses on each side of the street. 
You will pass a " spectacle shop " on the right, and a 
grist mill and saw miil at a linle distance from the street, 
on the left. The la;ier establishment i> owned by Mr. 
Royal Smith, commonly called " Corporal Smith," and 
sometimes " Corporal Trim." Why be received this ap- 
pellation, is not easy to determine. If it was intended as 
a reproach, it was certainly undeserved. He is a pious 
man, and, professionally, a christian Me sometimes 
keeps a dog, it i- true; but what then ? Doug are com- 
mon there, and form a fancy stock of canine brokerage in 
the whole town. Mr. Smith is a respectable citizen, and 
takes honest toll. 

A little farther on, you come to the old dam of the Co- 
lumbian factory. That little house of a ru-ty red color, 
on the left, is the place where Henry Barber sometimes 
inhabits. You pass the rocky prominence on t lie right, 
and soon reach the village itself. The first house is on 
the left, close by the river's brink. It is a loner, low, half 
upright, suspicious looking building, at best. Some year 
or two ago, it was the residence of an old man named Joe 
Pope, whose conscience was not over-scrupulous about 
the commission of little sins, to say nothing of a larger 
and graver kind. He bad sold rum clandestinely, adver- 
hus legem t much to the anno\ance of certain citizens of 
the town. Whereupon one dark night, a number of thera 



65 

assembled around his house, discovered his spirituous 
treasures, and then gave him his choice, either to empty 
his barrels upon the ground or submit to a prosecution for 
selling spirits, absque privilegio, and thus violating the li- 
cense law. He chose the former, and his rum soon rah 
gurgling, down into the river for the special benefit of the 
tittle fishes frisking there. He groaned outright, when he 
saw the spirit departing from his house, and felt himself 
depiived of its profits and its inspirations! Whether this 
course was just, or judicious, must be left for others to de- 
cide. The old man soon after left that inhospitable place, 
and took up his abode in an out-of-the-way house, about 
three miles distant at the south, where he resumed his old 
business, and endeavored to make amends for his losses. 
His place of residesce was a frequent resort of the two wor- 
thy confederates of Milton Streeter — vii , Edwin and Mar- 
vin Reynolds. The spirit obtained from Joe Pope, they 
often conveyed to Streeter's house ; and he, perhaps, 
sometimes drank it when presented to his lips. 

As you proceed down the river you pass two or three 
dwellings on the left, the last of which is a large brick 
house. The next you meet with, is a row of three or four 
slate colored buildings on the right — two story, double, 
dwelling houses, bearing the appearance of having been 
seared or blistered by heat. That was produced a year 
or two before, by the burning of the factory which stood 
nearly opposite on the left, fronting the blistered block of 
buildings There stand now the old wheel, a part of the 
flume, some of the walls and abutments, with timbers on 
them charred and half consumed— the relics of a once 
large and flourishing structure. But it is all desolate 
now ! The rank weeds grow on the spot where oftce 
whirled the humming spindles, and where busy industry 
wove the web of life ! The old railmg still remain?, 
scorched and scathed, near the roadside, and the blistered 
dwellings hold their place to tell the devastating influence 
of the fiery element. 

This constitutes all the village. Its physical aspect 
would seem to render it a fit abode for bats and owU, 
5 



66 

ghosts and murderers. It stands in a narrow defile. The 
Quinebaug winds its sombre waters among the willows at 
the It'll. High hills of pasture and woodland frown in 
their >tillness at the right. Dark pines and other duskj 
evergreens skirt the road for some distance below. And 
the scene altogether is such as might awaken the appre- 
hensions of the timid and the fears of the superstitions. 

The business of the place is gone; and iis inhabitants, 
not belonging to a class possessed of a high order of in- 
tellect or ol morals, are generally poor and thriftless, to 
hay nothing of other characteristics, which it may not be 
proper even to mention. 

The reader will now please to walk down to that two 
story house, the first in the slate colored row, after passing 
the brick dwelling on the left. The small building jut- 
ting out from the west end towards the street, has been 
used as an out-house for wood and other household arti- 
cles. The main building is double, haviug two separate 
tenements under the same roof, with a front door for en- 
trance at each end. Each tenement contains three rooms 
on the ground floor, and the same number in the second 
story. The tenement at the upper or west end is vacant. 
The other is occupied by Mr. Benjamin Diliaber and hie 
family. Mr. Diliaber is one of those singular bipeds some- 
times met with in the community. He is neither M half 
horse," nor " half alligator ;" though, if he Ihed among 
the 4t suckers" of the west, he might resemble some spec- 
imens of that hippo-crocodile tribe which vegetates along 
the c< Father of waters. " His face is wrinkled, sunburnt, 
and knurly, with an expression not very intellectual, nor 
yet altogether unpleasant. His, morals — but let all that 
pass ! He is far from being the worst of men, though he 
may not rank among the very best. He has his mission, 
to the world, and is just as much entitled to the consider- 
ation of the philosopher, the philanthropist, and the 
christian, as any other bi/jes implumes, or specimen of 
mortality in the whole earth. 

That load of goods that has just stopped before tbe 
door of the vacant tenement, belongs to Milton Streeter 
and bis wife* While they are unloading their M plua- 



67 

for" let us go in and examine the tenement. Opening 
the front door, you first enter the hall, a space about five 
feet wide, extending half through the house. At the left, 
there is a door opening into the front room, a parlor ahouc 
twelve feet square. On the right, is the narrow stairway 
leading to the rooms above. At the further end of the 
hall, a door opens, at the left, into a room about eleven 
by thirteen feet, in the rear of the parlor — a sort of dining 
room and kitchen altogether. At the right of this, an4 
in the rear of the stairway, is a small bed room, the door 
of which opens into the dining room. From the dining 
room you go out into a small room, added to the main 
building, and used as a "sink room." 

The rooms on the second Moor are arranged in precise- 
ly the same order with those below. The front chamber 
is a trifle smaller than its mate on the lower floor ; the 
rear chamber a little larger, but directly over its com- 
panion below ; and the bfd room is of the same size and 
appearance with its confederate dormitory unierneath. 

The goods were soon unloaded, and Mr. and Mrs. 
Streeter have taken up their abode in that ominous tene- 
ment. Their " boarders 3 ' have gone thither also, and 
taken quarters in one of the snug rooms on the second 
floor. The building was finished in a plain and cheip 
manner, and designed for the use of factory operatives 
Their furniture is all arranged, and things are settled 
once more, in a place they call their home. 

But it was far from being a happy home, or a happy life 
that they now enjoyed. The troubles which caused their 
ejectment from the tenement of Mr. Hawks, had in no 
wise diminished by their removal. Indeed, there was a 
constant augmentation. The improvidence and want of 
energy on the part of each, seemed only to increase their 
burdens, and thereby render them mutually more irritable 
and petulant towards each other. Milton could not live 
without food ; and how could the kindest companion pre- 
pare it for him, if she had none to prepare ? It is un- 
questioned that they had not always provision in the house 
sufficient for the demands of appetite. 



68 

Streeter spent not his substance in liquor. In this re- 
ject he differed from most of his companions. He could 
not use intoxicating drink to excess, in consequence of 
the terrible effects produced on his head. It invariably 
increased the pain ; and produced a delirium, which he 
himself could not endure. What others found to afford 
an intoxication of pleasure, was to him the delirium of 
misery. Of course, though his boarders kept it, he sei- 
. dom used it. 

Early in August, Milton's father removed from South- 
bridge to Sutton; and of course the unfortunate son was 
deprived oi that paternal watchfulness which had always 
been exercised over him, and often with the most salutary 
effect. Indeed the father, lamenting the calamity that 
brought so much infamy upon the family, has expressed 
the conviction, that had he remained in town, the terrible 
disaster would not have happened Mr. Janes and hi* 
wife, who had been so much a favorite of Milton, had re- 
turned to the town, and occupied a tenement on Dresser 
Hill. But differences of some kind had occurred to de- 
stroy the intimate relations, that had formerly existed be- 
tween them. The two families were not on intimate 
terms with each other, probably from some disaffection 
towards Mrs. Streeter, on the part of Janes and his wife. 
But whatever was the cause, Milton was deprived of that 
solace of sisterly affection, which had given him joy in 
early life. He was cut loose, as it were, from the strong 
lies, that had held in check the impetuosities of his spirit, 
He stood alone, bound indeed, to an unsympathizing wife, 
and to a world that seemed all against him. 

It was a few weeks after Mr. Asa Streeter, the father, 
had left town, in the early part of September, that Milton 
was obliged to take up his abode in that village of the 
high sounding and euphonious name of Columbia. He 
was there surrounded by influences, probably not the bes* 
calculated to develope the good qualities ot his heart, It 
was not indeed a place, 

" Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry**' 



69 

But everything around him, the associations of the place 
and the people, all tended to produce a result the very op- 
posite of what might have been desired. One or the oth- 
er of the young men named Reynolds was with him most 
of the time. Profanity and loud talk, angry words and 
vulgar expressions, were ever and anon resounding in his 
ears. Roaming the forest, with dog and gun, was his 
chief delight and his chief employment. His jealousy still 
burned with fiercer violence, augmented by the increased 
and increasing taunts and jeers poured in upon him, from 
all quarters. His wife, of course, was maltreated. The 
influences that had, hertofore, restrained him, now ceased 
to operate. They were too far removed to exert their 
power over him. The voice of Hannah was not always 
near ; the admonitions of his father which had usually re- 
strained him, during the storm of his passions, wete now 
unheard. Seeing the effects, — the tempestuous and half- 
phrenzied state of his mind, his associates joked with re- 
doubled diligence. Grave men looked on and laughed, 
unthoughtful of the terrible state of his mind. And he 
was being borne along, by an imperceptible current, into 
that vortex of phrenzy which terminated in the fatal deed 
of blood, and no one essayed to prevent it. 

Not far from the same time there were singular visions, 
said to have been hovering and dancing around the dream- 
ing hours of Elvira's father, at the old homestead. The re- 
port is — take it, reader, for what it is worth — but report 
has stated that there are two small graves, showing their 
grassy mounds, not far from the residence of Mr. Houghton; 
but what departed infants were they, whose bones repose 
there, is known only within a very narrow circle. Mys- 
tery has drawn her veil around them, impervious to the 
eye of peeping, prying curiosity. Just prior to the mur- 
der of Elvira, the gray-haired old man was startled from a 
deep sleep, following a day of toil, by the shrill cries of 
little children ! He roused himself, looked anxiously 
around the room and listened ; but heard no noise, and 
saw no objects, that could give utterance to cries so sin- 
gular and so absolutely distressing. He composed him- 



70 

self to sleep, but was afterwards again awakened by the 
game piercing cries. And three times, accoiding to the 
common course of oneirornancy or dreaming auguries, did 
that same cry of wieichedness and agony break the still- 
aess of the midnight air ; three times was that wearied 
snan aroused from his heavy slumbers by those same in- 
fantile voices ; and three times did he shake sleep front 
his heavy eyes, and search for the hidden causes of so 
ftinguiar a tumult. No living children were there. It 
could be no other than spectral infants, coming up with 
attenuated forms, in their baby winding-sheets, from those 
two little graves ! These things the old man deemed to 
be fearfully portentous — pointing with an unmistakeable 
indication to an evil, somehow mysteriously connected 
with his daughter. What wonderful causes produced that 
lingular vision ? Was it conscience starting, with re- 
newed vigor, into fresh life, during the waning years of 
that unostentatious man ? How veiy strange it is, that 
little spectral children should come up from their spirit 
home, raise their tiny voices, rend the air with their dole- 
ful cries, and thus rouse the sleeping ears of that widowed 
man ! Were they holding a frolicksome, ghostly revel, 
m anticipation of the near approach of a mother, to their 
unearthly home ? No answer can be given to these ques- 
tions, though they were deemed of solemn import. But 
here is the story. Reader, believe it if you will; thou- 
sands will not. 

If, however, omens are of any import if the lessons of 
the past, point with any distinctness to the developemenu 
of the future, if in any case, 

" Coming events cast their shadows before," 

it were no hard matter 40 predict, that a fearful evil of 
some kind would befal Milton Stteeter and his wife. The 
state of mind on the part of each, the interchange of words 
amd deeds, in no wise conciliating, all pointed to a calam- 
ity, terrible in its character, and bloody in its result. 

How far the young chaps, the inmates of his family, 
nay have exerted an influence in producing that result, 



7i 

»o one can determine. What control they might have 
had over the mind of the unhappy wife, cannot now be 
known. She certainly suffered no inconsiderable abuse, from 
the roused passions of her husband. Day by day his vio- 
lence increased. It is not possible, that it should have 
arisen so suddenly to the high pitch which it attained, 
without some exciting cause concealed from public obser- 
vation. There is something exceedingly mysterious in 
the doings of that unquiet family ; and something equally 
suspicious, in the character and conduct of those two 
young men who boarded there. But whatever may have 
been the causes, there were certainly threats and violence 
used, until it became a matter too serious to be longer en- 
dured. Consequently, Mrs. Streeter resolved to make 
complaint before a magistrate, and take the legal steps 
necessary to free herself from such continued abuse. She 
may have had good grounds of complaint, but. her course 
of conduct through the whole affair, seems clearly to show 
that she had but little fear of her life. 

That her purpose was formed at the instigation and by 
the advice of her boarders, cannot now be affirmed. ([This 
may, or it may not, have been the case. They were of a 
turn of mind very different from Milton, — less gruff and 
repulsive, and probably made themselves agreeable by 
sympathy, and perhaps assistance, in her misfortunes. 
Nor would it be surprising at all, if, for such kindness, 
they were rewarded with special confidence, and favors 
not otherwise to be bestowed. She might be led to listen 
to their counsel, in a matter of such peculiar interest, as 
the step she had proposed to take. 

Before proceeding to the magistrate, it was deemed in- 
dispensable to remove Streeter out of the way, so that he 
should be ignorant of the procceedings about to be insti- 
tuted, and, at the same time, secure in a place where ho 
could be found, if needed. Accordingly, by collusion be- 
tween Mrs. Streeter and Marvin Reynolds, that object 
was obtained. On Saturday, the 21st of October, Milton 
and his two hopeful boarding associates, sallied forth on 
one of their usual excursions, where they managed to kill 



« 

time % if nothing else. Meanwhile, the luckless Elvira re- 
paired to the office of Frederic Botham, Esq., an aged 
and venerable attorney, skilled in the knotty and crooked 
things of the law, with a view of entering her complaint 
against her hard-hearted spouse. For some reason, how- 
ever, the infirm attorney refused to act, on that day, and 
deferred the whole matter until the ensuing Monday. 
This was quite unexpected to the trembling complainant, 
and quite unfavorable to the consummation of her plans. 
She would be exposed to the danger of violence, during 
the intervening period, in case her intentions should come 
to the ears of her already incensed husband. The time, 
however, passed off without exposure. Her officious 
boarders took special care to have her doings concealed 
from the nnsuspecting man. The Sabbath passed. It 
was a day of momentous interest to the ill fated woman. 
Could she have lifted the veil and looked but a single day 
into the mysterious future, she would have shrunk back, 
shocked and terror-struck at the view. Doubtless she 
would have passed her time very differently with reference 
to the momentous interests of another world. What a 
sad admonition to all, to have always in view the contin- 
gencies of a sudden departure, and so live as to die with- 
out regret. That Sabbath passed, probably as many oth- 
ers before it had been spent, in utter disregard of Sabbath 
duties! 



CHAPTER VIIT. 

Mrs. ?treet«r makes her complaint — "Warrant issued by th* 
magistrate for Streeter's apprehension — his arrest- — his ap- 
pearance in Court — proposed separation — Full particulars of 
the murder of Mrs. Streetcr — Streeter attempts to commit 
suicide 

11 Oh woful day! most lamentable day • 
Never was seen so black a day as this!*' 

On Monday morning, October 23d, 1848, before eight 
o'clock. Mrs. Streeter had gone again to the office of the 
magistrate, to prosecute her suit. Prior to that period, 
her husband had been inveigled from his home, under th« 
pretence of making a short visit to a brother of one of his 
hoarders. It had been arranged, between Elvira and 
Marvin Reynolds, that Streeter should be enticed away to 
some place where he could be conveniently watched, and, 
at the same time, readily found and secured by an officer, 
who might be sent after him. Accordingly, he was invi- 
ted to go and see Otis Reynolds, who lived' some three 
miles distant ; and, unsuspicious of trickery, he went 
cheet fully with the two brothers. This was done, as the 
parties alleged, because they feared the violence of his 
temper, if he should know, beforehand, the steps about to 
be taken. Having arranged these preliminaries, the legal 
steps were prosecuted, at the office of the magistrate. The 
wife stated her grievances, entered her complaint, and, in 
due time, a warrant was issued, and placed in the hands 
of A. F. Ammidown, Esq., who proceeded, forthwith, to 
arrest the still unsuspecting husband He repaired to the 
spot where he was directed to go, found the inveigled man, 
without difficulty, and made known his business. 

Thunderstruck at the intelligence, Milton paused in 
mate amazement, and was completely unmanned- Pale 
and trembling, he followed the officer without resistance. 
Still the lineaments of bis dull countenance gave fearfal 



74 

signs of the tempest that was raging within. He was ta- 
ken before the magistrate, confronted with the disaffected 
Elvira, and required to give a reason for his singular vio- 
lation of his plighted vows. Witnesses were examined, 
whose testimony went to show that Milton was a vife and 
brut il man. The wile testified that, living with him, or 
even being in his presence, she was afraid of her life- 
Milton, in the meantime, looked on and listened in silence. 

His features were naturally rather disagreeable. J he 
face was plump and full, cheek bones high, nose promi- 
nent and thick set, peering up between hazle eyes, which 
looked out, with a somewhat sinister expression, from be- 
neath protruding eyebrows. The forehead, not very low, 
was sloping, and the head, towards the back part, rose, 
bald and bare, to an apex, like the summit of a snow- 
capped mountain. The whole expression was quite un- 
pleasant, even when lighted up with his blandest smiles. 

But now his face was darker than usual. The brow 
was knit. The expression was sour — nay, surly. It was 
.he threatening scowl that precedes a tempest. A close 
observer could see the workings of a half phrenzied mind. 
No other man — no careless observer could, possibly, en- 
ter the recesses of that dark mind, see its bewilderment, 
and ascertain its true position. He was aroused to the 
highest pitch of excitement. Still he was cool. That 
excitement was mostly concealed, except the occasional 
signs that were seen, bursting through a cool exterior. 
He was all passion ; the inner man was torn with violent 
and conflicting emotions ; but outwardly, he was as one 
muffled, who wraps his cloak closely around him, during 
the cool of winter. He acted ; he lived, he moved about 
among his friends and companions ; but he scarcely knew 
why all this was done. And, when the^cene was passed, 
he remembered it; but it was like the recollection of a 
fleeting dream of the wildes| phantasms. 

The legal proceedings continued, moving slowly 
towards an adjustment of difficulties. It was the cool 
formality of legal technicalities, of moral maxims and sage 
admonitions, doled out in the language of indifference 



75 

Hilton heard it all and assented to it; but it left no other 
impression upon him, than an increase of mental excite- 
ment. It was at length arranged that the husband and 
wife should separate, that they should divide their goods, 
and each pursue the journey of life alone. To this ar- 
rangement Milion assented, quietly and silently. No le- 
gal or compulsory force was needed. He yielded without 
a word of resistance or of complaint, as one torn, half 
distracted, from the dearest interests of the world. He 
shed no tears ; the fountains were ail dried up. He was 
then put under bonds to keep the peace, and was also re- 
quired to leave the State. He heard it all, and saw the 
whole process, as one having ears to hear, yet feeling but 
little interest in the matter. 

But the result — it was too painful to think of! To one 
of his temperament, it was overwhelming. To be exiled 
from his home and his friends — to be banished from the 
scenes which, though diversified with lights and shadows, 
were still dear to him — to be expatriated and driven from 
the endearments of his young life, and to be forced even 
from the woman he had loved with such phrenzied emo- 
tion — to go forth alone, with no friend, no comforter, no 
home, no companion, and leave behind his wife for others 
to enjoy — it was too much for one of his peculiar organi- 
zation 1 Men of stronger minds might have shrunk from 
the issue. Milton Streeter was overpowered. 

Joseph L. Janes, his brother-in-law, and Geo. A. Vin- 
ton, became his sureties to keep the peace towards his 
wife. The trial closed. All parties left the office of the 
magistrate to consummate the agreements there entered 
into. As a first step, Streeter agreed to give his brother- 
in-law a bill of sale of all his part of the household furni- 
ture, in consideration of money due to Mr. Janes, and the 
costs of Court, which he had paid that day. They stop- 
ped a short time at the store of Mr. Vinton; writings 
were made out, arranged and duly signed ; and then the 
two proceeded to the residence of Mr. Janes, where they 
remained until after dinner. 

Meantime, Mrs. Streeter returned to her own house, 



76 

accompanied with some of her friends. Marvin Reynolds 
seems to have been her special attendant. He remained 
at the house with her, to assist in arranging the furniture, 
preparatory to the final separation and division of property. 

iMilton ate his dinner in sadness, by the side of his sis- 
ter Hannah. It was a bitter day for him, and his food 
was eaten in bitterness of soul. He said but little, yet 
his whole frame shook with agitation. His motions were 
wild, and often involuntary. To add to his excitement, 
his fun-loving tormentors must have a little more " spoil/' 
even at the expense of his misfortunes. 

" Streeter," said one of them, •• 1 understand that you 
and your wife have parted, and you are going out of the 
State. When you are gone, the young men can see your 
wife and wait upon her just as they please. " 

Never was a remark more fatally mistimed. It added 
fresh fuel to his jealousy and indignation. 

About two o'clock in the afternoon, Streeter and Janes 
went down to his house, with a horse and wagon to get 
his furniture. It was about a mile distant. Arriving at 
the place, they found Elvira and Marvin Reynolds sitting, 
calm and quiet, the sole occupants of the house. Streeter 
seems not, before this time, to have been jealous of Rey- 
nolds. But now he started outright, as if he had been 
suddenly awakened from a dream of terror. He stared 
amazed at the quiet occupants. A cloud settled more 
darkly over his brow. He had " looked grieved " through 
all the day. but now he was " mote cast down " than 
ever. The words, which, a short time before, he had 
heard concerning the future infidelity of his wife, came 
fresh over him. He saw partially their verification, and the 
sad prospect of dishonor moved him with a deeper and 
intenser purpose. He loved his wife, and with all their 
dissensions, how could he leave her to take her chance in 
the world and revel in infamy ? 

The goods were soon loaded, and Milton and his faith- 
ful brother-in-law left the house. Elvira and Marvin 
Reynolds remained sole occupants when they left. They 
went to the house of Janes, and there found Edwin Rey- 



77 

nolds on their arrival. What could all that mean ? Had 
the two treacherous brothers conspired to favor each 
other in the enjoyment of his wife's smiles 1 The goods 
were hastily unloaded. Milton appeared strange His 
movements were in jerks; the doors slammed alter him 
as he passed through them. Be muttered to himself 
something about •■ trouble," brief snatches of which were 
occasionally overheaid: — " he would rather die than live 
for he had no comfort." He stepped out of the door, sie- 
zed a saw, and commenced sawing wood. But every 
movement was impetuous and eccentric. Marcus Ran- 
dall, a near neighbor, stood by and saw him, in his wild 
movements. He lifted several sticks and played the an* 
tics of a madman. He sawed furiously awhile, and then 
stopped and stood as one amazed ; then sawed again wilfe 
the same impetuosity ; but with the exception of these 
quick, eccentric motions, he appeared cool, and his coun- 
tenance, a little flushed and bloated, wore its usual siolid- 
ity. He went into the house, muttering incoherent tx- 
pressions in a voice scarcely audible. "Trouble" seem- 
ed to be the burden of his husky tones. At length he 
spoke out, as if unconscious of what he said ; — " lie 
would not be in trouble long, for he would destroy himself 
that night!" His friends were feaiful of the results, and 
kept him under their constant surveillance ; and his wile 
had been warned against being in his presence alone. 

He wished to go down to his house again, " to get some 
shirts, " as he said, and other things which weie lelt be- 
hind. There were other thittgs which he thought more 
of than shirts. Janes was unwilling that he should go 
alone, and accordingly proposed to go with him. fctreeter 
consented. 

He had inquired particularly if his razors had been 
brought away. After some search, they were found among 
his goods, and laid carefully in a secure place. Janes af- 
terwards discovered that one of them was missing. 

The two started otT together, and ariived at Streeter'a 
house about five o'clock in the afternoon. They entered 
the bouse together, and found no one there. Elvira and 



78 

her special attendant bad disappeared. Janes entered tbe 
front room and sat down. Milton passed through the 
hall to the dining room ; then returned and went up stairs, 
but came down again immediately, observing that Elvira 
bad gone into Diilabei's apartment. He went out, saw 
Dillaber's boy and sent him to call his wife. Receiving 
the request, she laid down her work, went out, and meet- 
ing her husband, followed him into the tenement which 
they had hardly yet abandoned. 

As they passed the threshold of the front door, Streeter 
said, " Elvira, I want to see you." 

Then he inquired for some shirts which he was to have. 
She told him they were in a basket in the bed room up 
stairs. He next inquired for some new cloth cut out lor 
shirts, but not made. She replied, that she thought he 
might let her have that, for what he owed her. He made 
no further remark, but went up stairs. She, at the same 
time, entered the front room and sat down with Mr. Janes. 
After sitting awhile, she called aloud to Streeter, request- 
ing him not to tumble her basket, for the things he wanted, 
Jay on the top. A moment after, she started and went 
up stairs, leaving Janes in the room below. The door 
Btifl stood open. Streeter was in the bed room above. 
Unapprehensive of danger, or very unthoughtful, she went 
directly into his presence. The rage of a tiger, in quest 
of food burned in his bosom. He had inveigled her into 
that narrow place. The room was reft of its furniture. 
The basket stood before them. While her attention was 
diverted, he slipped stealthily behind her and seized her 
by the head with his left hand. A sudden scream fol- 
lowed. He brandished a sharp razor, held in his right 
hand, and then drew it — once — twice — across her ihroat ! 
A terrible wound was inflicted. Blood spouted in torrents 
down her delicate form. She slipped quickly from his 
tiger grasp, turned and ran bleeding down the stairs. 
Halfway down she met Janes who had heard the first 
scream and sprang to the rescue. He took her by the 
arm — she could not speak — and led her out at the front 
door towards the apartments of Dillaber. Entering there, 
be called wildly for help. 



81 

Meantime, Streeter, left in the fatal bedroom, drew the 
name savage razor across his own throat. The blood 
flowed freely, and mingled, jet by jet, with the life's blood 
of his murdered wife ! It was his intention to die by her 
aide, that they might both rest together in one common 
grave. 

Mrs. Dillaber, as she saw the wounded woman, covered 
with gore, and heard the exclamation from Janes, " here, 
here !* screamed c; murder/' Horror-struck at the 
bloody scene, she ran like one frantic, but soon took hold 
of Elvira's arm, and, with the assistance of Janes, led her 
out a^ain towards her own door. Becoming faint from 
loss of blood, they at length set her down upon the green 
grass. There, for the first time after the deed, they &aw 
Streeter standing in the front door, bleeding profusely, 
from the wounds inflicted upon his own throat. He was 
looking anxiously upon his dyin* wife. Janes stepped 
towards him and he said, " good bye !" 

A boy was dispatched to alarm the neighbors. Janes, 
also started off for a physician, and Mrs. Dillaber stepped to 
a house close by for help. She returned in a moment, 
and found Mrs. Streeter sitting upon the grass where she 
had left her, and Streeter himself, sitting by her side, 
with the blood flowing from his own wound. 

"What have you done?" she exclaimed at the frights 
ful spectacle before her. lt You have cut your own throat 
and your wife's, and are sitting here wallowing in each 
other's blood !" 

" Here I die V was the only reply offered by the mis- 
erable victim of blind infatuation. 

Mrs. Dillaber soon left again to quiet her children, wW 
were crying in the house. On her return she found the 
doomed Elvira, lying upon the grass weltering in h«r 
gore. Milton had moved towards the wood-shed^ and 
there sat, the very picture of ghastly despair ! 

Help soon came. In the meantime, Streeter arose and 
passed again into his own house, after which the door was 
shut. 

Several persons had now arrived, and while some wer« 
6 



attending to the murdered woman, Mr. Royal Smith 
opened the door to look after the murderer. He was seen 
xa the hall, where he brandished his bloody razor, then 
4arted immediately into the dining-room, and from thence 
into the bedroom, underneath the one where the first deed 
was perpetrated. There, he drew his razor again across 
his throat, and blood gushed afresh from the already 
bleeding wound. 

Others had now come in, — among them, Ebenezer Ed- 
monds. Streeter had dropped the razor upon the floor. 
He sprang quickly from the bedroom into the rear part of 
the dining-room, and, as they stood around him, he 
leaped, half phrenzied, with frightful impetuosity, across 
the room, and dashed his head with all his might against 
the resisting wall ! It bioke through the lathing, and 
sunk half way to his ears into the plaster. On either 
side the marks of his bloody hands were left imprinted 
upon the wall. Stunned by the blow, he rebounded and 
fell quivering upon the floor. But he recovered in a short 
time and was able to sit up. The last cut of the razor 
had severed the wind-pipe and deprived him of speech. 
He signified his wish, by motions to rise, but the attendant 
Icept him sitting. A physician soon arrived ; Streeter was 
taken up stairs and his wounds dressed. It was a horri- 
ble scene. Blood bespattered the walls and lay in pud- 
dles upon the floor, in the bedrooms above and below \ 
and it was afterwards trodden and tracked by the horri- 
fied visiters all through the house. 

The news of the tragic scene spread with astonishing 
rapidity. It fell like a thunder stroke upon all ears, and 
sent a thrill of horror all through the community. It was 
an event so uncommon in that quiet place, and yet so 
shocking and heart-rending, that crowds of spectators 
gathered around to witness the bloody scene. The mur- 
dered woman was taken from the gory grass, and con- 
veyed to the front room of the house, she was about to 
Jeave. She had little thought of leaving in that tragic 
manner. The body was laid upon the floor, a spectacle 
for her trembligg gazers, and preparatory to the legal in- 
vestigation. It was a shocking sight to behold! 



83 

Elvira had once been quite handsome. A prominent 
expanding forehead, rose richly above her dark eyes, and 
pave grace to the curved lines of well traced eyebrows. 
Her cheeks were high but somewhat pale and sunken, 
her face rather broad but not disproportioned. Her lips, 
shrivelled, perhaps by the perturbations of life, opened 
upon a set of teeth of ivory whiteness. Her complexion 
was fair, yet in later life it wore a hue indicative of ill 
health. Her raven hair was tastefully arranged, and cor- 
responded well with the glossy black satin dress that 
graced her whole person. That dress, which formed her 
dying attire, was neatly adjusted, and admirably arranged 
to display a form at once delicate and beautiful. It gave 
her an air altogether too lady-like, for one so uncouth and 
careless of dress and of manners as was Milton Streeter. 
In her outward appearance she was quite prepossessing, 
and so in her manners, unless, perchance, you happened 
to approach too near and see too much of her intellectual 
vacancy. 

She now lay a murdered victim, stretched upon the 
floor in the front room of her own house. She was ar- 
rayed in that same dress and the same exterior arrange- 
ment, in which she had often before appeared. Blood 
bespattered her garments ; her dishevelled locks had fal- 
len around the horrible wound in her neck, and her ap- 
pearance was shocking. The expression of agony and 
despair, which rested upon her countenance, as she*issued 
from the fatal chamber, had disappeared and given place 
to the quiet repose of death. The deep wound gaped 
shockingly across her throat. It had severed the trachea 
or wind-pipe, and one or both of the carotid arteries. The 
Coroner's Jury were busy with their melancholy work un- 
til it was completed. Their verdict affirmed that Elvira 
Streeter came to her death by wounds inflicted upon her 
person by Milton W Streeter, her husband. And then 
the body was given into the hands of sympathizing female 
friends, to be prepared for the burial service. 

Still, as the news extended, the people, anxious to m* 
certain the horrible details, came in large numbers to wk* 



84 

ness the bloody scene. All were horror-struck and in- 
dignant at the perpetrator of so inhuman a deed. And 
severe expressions and terrible imprecations were uttered 
against the unhappy man. Words of imprecation often 
fell from sweet voices, unaccustomed to the utterance of 
wrath ; but they were the natural outbursts of a righteous 
indignation. Humanity was shocked and saddened at 
the tragic deed ; and gave vent to its emotions, so just 
and natural, in expressions of fearful malediction. 

The self-wounded murderer, unable to escape, was ea- 
sily secured. A guard was placed over him ; the issue of 
his injury was yet uncertain. He might not see the light 
of another morning, and doubtless, it was his earnejt 
prayer to sleep in death beside his murdered wife. 



CHAPTER IX. 

Interview between Streeter and his Father, after the murder— 
Streeter permitted to view the remains of his wife, on the 
day of her interment — an exciting scene — Mrs. Streeters 
funeral — Streeter's trial — conviction — sentence — commutation 
of sentence — phrenological description— conclusion. 

The morning dawned, and the sun rose with smiles as 
bright as ever upon the desolated habitation of Milton 
Streeter. But not for him did those smiles radiate over 
the face of creation. Dreadfully wounded and dreadfully 
guilty, he had passed the night a miserable man. Appre- 
hensive alike of dying and of living, he groaned outright 
from the pains o body and of mind. The hours of night, 
had, however, somewhat stilled the torturing turbulence 
of his spirit; but this only left him racked with deeper 
agony. He could now look more coolly over the events 
of the preceding day ; and he began to offer excuses for 
ihe dark transaction. After the dressing of his wound 
he could speak a little, so as to be understood, but not 
without considerable difficulty. Among the reasons givea 
for committing the deed, were these, — that his wife had 
choked him, or had made complaints against him, or 
again that he was in trouble. To some he stated that he 
was in iiquor, and to others that he was not. Thus many 
frivolous excuses weie presented ; but the chief thought, 
over-mastering all others, was trouble. And this was 
doubtless the true ground. His trouble might indeed 
have been more of fancy than of reality ; but to him it 
was real, and operated upon his burdened mind with 
terrible fatality. 

During the day he was examined before a magistrate 
on a charge of murder and ordered to be committed for 
trial. Too weak, however, to be taken to prison imme- 
diately, he remained guarded in his own house. 



86 

Meantime a messenger was despatched to Sutton to in- 
form his parents of the shocking tragedy which had just 
transpired. The news came like the voice of thunder upon 
their ears. The surviving parent of the murdered woman 
had already been apprised of the deed, and had come to 
the scene of blood. He was present indeed, the day be- 
fore, during the transaction that preceded the murder. 
But now he was called again to a graver and more heart- 
rending scene. That ominous dream came fresh to his 
mind. Whether that dream had any counterpart in the 
things of life, or the events of individual history, whether 
it in any way reflected the memories of that unfortunate 
and sorrowing father, no man can tell. Amazed and af- 
flicted, he was far from being incensed against the perpe- 
trator of that awful crime. In fact, he appeared on the 
trial as a witness for the defence, testifying to the glassy 
eye and strange bewilderment, manifested by his guilty 
son-in-law on the afternoon of the murder. 

But an overwhelming burden of affliction fell upon the 
murderer's own parents. They were astounded and filled 
with agony. No tongue can tell, no voice can speak the 
anguish of that mother ! Borne down with the terrible 
event, she could not thqn come up to look upon her guilty 
•on. And it was not until the next day that Mr. Streeter 
himself was able to come. He then summoned strength 
and fortitude to visit the offender. He entered the room 
with a heavy heart. He met the gaze of his guilty son. 
He essayed to speak, but emotion choked his voice and 
forbade his utterance. Tears followed copiously from fa- 
ther and son, and all present were melted at the mourn- 
ful scene But the deed was done —done in the phrenzy 
of excitement ; still the offender was not to be cast out of 
\he pale of affection, and treated as one belonging to 
another race of beings. The father recognized the obli- 
gation resting upon him, and pursued the course of duty 
which required a fair and full defence of his unfortunate 
son. 

It was not yet certain that he would recover from his 
wounds. Symptoms, however, in a few days seemed to 



87 

indicate a favorable result, and he was watched with the 
more care and circumspection. 

During this time, preparations had been made for the 
burial service of the murdered wife. And as the time 
drew near, the miserable husband was permitted to go 
below and take a final leave of ihe corpse. Assisted by 
his attendants, he entered the apartment. The sad spec- 
tacle, resulting from his own misdeeds, made a deep and 
sensible impression upon his mind. There she lay, ar- 
rayed in her winding sheet, tranquil as a morning in 
summer, and beautiful even in death. The room was 
thronged by those of her own sex, shocked at the terrible 
catastiophe, and drawn by curiosity and sympathy to the 
theatre of blood! The mind of the miserable man had 
again cooled down to its natural state. The phrenzy of the 
moment, which impelled the deed, had subsided. Reason 
and light, and the principles and affections of better years, 
came back for the moment, fresh upon him. The sight 
of his murdered wife, pale in death, yet lovely in her 
paleness, brought to his mind a sudden flash from the 
memory of other days. He loved still, and the fervor of 
that love returned to his heart with emotions wilder than 
ever. He asked to be brought near, that he might im- 
print a last kiss upon one he loved so tenderly. A sudden 
cry of indignation burst from the lips of those present, re- 
fusing the impious demand. It was the exclamation of 
nature itself. Commiseration for the murdered woman, 
forbade the rude embrace. The tender hearts of those 
standing near, shrunk from the thought that one who had 
wrought the bloody deed, should now be allowed to im- 
print upon its victim the kiss of desecration. But the 
murderer was now no longer brutal. His phrenzied feel- 
ing had passed away. Sad thoughts came into his mind. 
The memory of better days let in its light to illumine the 
darkness of his soul. 

" He hung his head — each nobler aim 
And hope and feeling which had slept 

From boyhood's hour, that moment came, 
Fresh o'er him, and he wept — he wept!" 



88 

The boon he asked for was not allowed. He gazed 
for a sad moment upon the lovely form, and then was con- 
?eyed back to his chamber. 

On the same day, the corpse of his wife was taken to 
the home of her youth, and, after the funeral obsequies, 
it was laid at rest under the green turf, by the side of her 
friends, who had gone before her to the land of dreamless 
sleepers. 

Milton W. Streeter, the murderer, was now placed in 
a new relation, with respect to the community around. 
He had done violence to the majesty of a civil compact, 
framed for the common good, and the common protection 
of all the citizens ; and he must give an account of that 
misdeed, at the bar of his country. He was soon after 
conveyed to the prison at Worcester, to await his trial 
and submit, as best he could, to the decision of a Jury 
of his peers. There he remained until the following June. 
la the meantime, the wound in his neck had completely 
healed, but it left him with a voice hoarse and husky. 
His long confinement had changed the complexion of his 
face. His general appearance was rugged and healthy, 
but his countenance was paler than natural. 

The day at length arrived, (June 14th, 1849,) for the 
solemn ordeal. He was brought before the Court, and 
arraigned at the bar, on the charge of murder. The trial 
was conducted with great ability. Every effort which 
talent and skill and legal attainments could put forth, was 
made to obtain a veidict in his favor. 

It is not necessary here to quote the evidence at length. 
All the essential points have been given in a more con- 
nected form, in the progress of this narrative. The iact 
set forth in the indictment, that a murder or homicide had 
been committed by the prisoner, was not controverted. 
The defence set up was simply a plea Cl for mitigation on 
account of the prisoner's irresponsibility, owing to mental 
imbecility." Several witnesses were examined, who tes- 
tified to the previous state of his mind, as giving indica- 
tions unfavorable to a correct and discriminating action, 
Among them were the friends and relatives, both of Mil- 



89 

ton himself and of his ill-fated companion. There can be 
no question that he was under the influence of what med- 
ical and medico-legal writers have denominated 4< moral 
mania " — a deranged st^ie, not of the intellect, but of 
the moral faculties, arrd a deranged state too, resulting 
from some diseased' action of the physical organism. 
Many distinguished writers have noted this form of insan- 
ity. Among them are Esquirol, Pinel, Andrew Combe, 
Georget and Pritchard. The latter writer describes it, as 
14 consisting in a morbid perversion of the natural feel- 
ings, affections, inclinations, temper, habits and moral 
dispositions, without any notable lesion of the intellect or 
knowing and reasoning faculties, and particularly without 
any maniacal hpl'ucination." This was precisely the 
case with Milton Streeter. The witnesses for the defence 
testified to many of the facts already related in this nar- 
rative — particularly, to the frequent talk of " trouble/' hia 
disposition to commit suicide, and, above all, his strange 
and wild appearance on the day of the murder. Even the 
rebutting witnesses, though unable to discover incompe- 
tency of judging or incapacity, '* metaphysically, " in his 
mental organization, were obliged to admit that there 
were " defects in his mind," that " his moral faculties 
were not of a high order," and that he was u improvi- 
dent/' " passionate," 4i heecless," " incautious," »" reck- 
less," " foolish in the field M and not safe to trust." And 
all this, together with the injury of his head, his frequent 
headache, his singular credulity, and his deep melancholy, 
would go far to make up the moral insanity of the writers 
already named. There may be danger, ordinarily, of ad- 
mitting this principle into the administration of law ; but 
when the subject is sent to prison and confined for life, so- 
ciety is protected and the danger is greatly diminished. 

The trial occupied a part of two days. The case waa 
then given to the jury who had it under consideration for 
about seven hours, when they returned a verdict of 
Guilty! 

On the next morning the unhappy man was brought 
into Court, and Chief Justice Shaw pronounced upon hioa 



90 

the usual sentence of death. The sentence however, was 
to be executed at such time as the Governor should ap- 
point. It might have been the design of the Court, by 
this course, to refer the whole matter to the Executive, 
that time might be allowed for the friends of the con- 
demned man, to make an effort for the commutation of 
bis sentence. 

By the verdict of the Jury, he was recommended to the 
merciful consideration of the Court. The case was ac- 
cordingly brought before the Governor, with such addi- 
tional evidence as had not been offered on the trial, and 
the result was that the sentence was commuted. The 
following paragraphs, from one of the secular journals, pre- 
sents the reasons for Executive interference : 

M The Governor, by and with the unanimous advice of 
the Council, has commuted the punishment of Milton W. 
Streeter, who was under sentence of death for the murder 
of his wife at Southbridge, (Worcester co.,) to imprison- 
ment at hard labor for life in the State Prison. 

At the trial of Streeter, it was proved that when about 
two years old he fell into the fire, and severely burned one 
side of his head, laying bare the skull — it was also proved 
that during his childhood he was subject to severe fits — 
and it was the opinion of physicians and others that the 
above causes had impaired his mental faculties, which 
have always been considered below the ordinary standard. 
He was easily excited, and very impulsive — and the crime 
for which he was convicted, was probably committed while 
in a state of frenzy, occasioned by jealousy of his wife, to 
whom he appeared to be strongly attached — which jeal- 
ousy was increased and aggravated by the indiscreet and 
reprehensible conduct of some young men of his neigh- 
hood. 

It appears that difficulties had arisen, and through the 
influence of their relatives, a separation had been agreed 
upon between himself and wife — and while they were in 
a room together, making some preparations for his imme- 
diate departure from the State, he suddenly cut her throat, 
with a razor, which he had about him, and also cut bis 



91 

own tKroat very badly. She survived but a short time. 
He had never, as we understood, been known to threaten 
the life of his wife — but he had frequently threatened to 
destroy himself, declaring that he did not wish to live 
without her. The jury, it seems, were unable for seven 
hours to agree upon a verdict of guilty of wilful murder, 
and went into Court to ask whether they could render a 
verdict of murder in the second degree — but on being 
instructed that there was no such distinction known to 
our laws, they finally agreed upon a verdict of guilty, but 
they accompanied the verdict with an unanimous recom- 
mendation of the prisoner to the mercy of the Executive 
department of the Government. 

After a full hearing of the case, the Committee on Par- 
dons reported unanimously to the Council in favor of the 
commutation prayed for — which report was unanimously 
accepted, as above stated. ,, 



Phrenological Characters of Milton W t Streeter and 
Mrs, Elvira W. Streeter, his wife, as given by 
Ho sea F. Tingley, Practical Phrenologist. 

Milton W. Stkeeter. 

Streeter has rather an unfavorable temperament, being 
a predominance of the sanguine lymphatic. His ani- 
mal and social organs predominate. His intellectual or- 
gans rather deficient, especially his reflective, viz : caus- 
ality and comparison,. giving a sloping appearance to his 
forehead. His moral organs, generally, but feebly devel- 
oped, particularly veneration and benevolence. Ama- 
tiveness, adhesiveness, destructiveness, combativeness, 
secretiveness and firmness, all large; with hope and cau- 
tiousness small. 

A person, having phrenological developments as above, 
would be destitute of moral principle ; reckless and heed- 
less; incapable of analytical reasoning; implacable in his 
resentments. The doctrines of Christianity he would no* 



92 

be likely to appreciate, nor would they be likely to have 
much effect upon his moral conduct. He would be 
coarse, vulgar and profane in his language. His conduct 
generally, would be repulsive to persons of good breeding. 
Having large firmness, adhesiveness and amativeness, as 
a lover, he would be extremely perseveiing to obtain the 
object of his love : and in this respect would urge his suit 
with much warmth and impetuosity. 

As a husband, he would be jealous of the partner of 
his bosom, would be suspicious of her fidelity to him, with- 
out a cause; consequently having destructiveness, combat- 
iveness and secretiveness large, would treat her (when his 
jealousy was excited,) with the utmost cruelty, without 
telling her the reason of his wrath. Under strong excite- 
ment, his destructiveness being highly inflamed by anger 
and having cautiousness small, would commit murder. 
Having small hope, he would be melancholy, viewing 
things in their worst aspect, as far as they related to him- 
self. In fine, he has a very unhappy phrenological organ- 
ization. 

Elvira W. Streeter. 

Mrs. Streeter has a predominance of the nervous bilious 
temperament. 

Her social organs, generally, are fully developed, giv- 
ing her a disposition to mingle much in society. She 
would be fond of participating in parties of pleasure. 
Having approbativeness large and also ideality, she would 
be fond of show, and she would be anxious to be the cen- 
tre of attraction in the social circles. She has amative- 
ness full or large, hence she would be fond of the person 
and company of the opposite sex. She would take much 
pains to appear to the best advantage in the society of 
young men, and receive their flattery with much satisfac- 
tion. She could never be satisfied to live a life of single 
blessedness ; hence she would manifest a great deal of 
solicitude to obtain a congenial partner to be a sharer of 
her joys, and sorrows through the journey of life. Not 
having causality more than average or moderate, therefore 



93 

not possessing a very strong judgment, she would be lia- 
ble not to make the most judicious selection for a husband 
one that would diminish her sorrows and augment her 
happiness. She would be very miserable if crossed in her 
wishes, more so than the generality of females. She has 
benevolence large, consequently she would be kind, 
obliging to others, willing to succor those in distress. 
Firmness not being large, she w r ould be fickle minded. 
Constructiveness and imitation being large, she would 
manifest a great deal of mechanical ingenuity, succeed 
well in learning to do nice needle work, and in this respect 
display much taste. 

On the whole, she is a lady of warm, confiding pas- 
sions, of strong but rather fickle attachments, fond of the 
gaieties of life, without much discrimination, hence she 
would be liable to be deceived in judging of human char- 
acter. 



CONCLUSION. 

The order for commutation having been received by the 
proper officer at Worcester, Milton W. Streeter was re- 
moved from the jail in that place, near the last of Decem- 
ber 1S49, and conveyed to the State Prison at Charlestowri 
there to be immured for life, and shut,out from the active 
scenes of the great world. And thus, more from ungov- 
ernable impulse, than actual crime, with " malice pre- 
pense," has a very singular young man, in the prime of 
life, been consigned to a living death ! 

But this, perhaps, is the best disposition which the civil 
authorities could possibly make of him. He is an unsafe 
man to be at large in the community. His mind is with- 
out balance or guiding force; his passions are uncon- 
trollable ; and no one, therefore, can calculate on the re- 
sults of their unrestrained violence. He is utterly disqual- 
ified to encounter the conflicts of human life, and inca- 
pacitated even for bearing its" little jostles with that equa- 
nimity which would furnish a safeguard against outrage. 
He is liable at any time, in the heat of passion, to injure 
others as he injured his own companion. Treated with * 



94 

tender care and discrimination by every one, he might 
pass along comfortably, but, at the same time, rudely and 
lazily, through the world. But he would always be one 
of those unfortunate and improvident beings, whom the 
community must support. And besides, it would be im- 
possible that, in passing through the world, he should al- 
ways receive that discriminating treatment essential to 
his quietness. But confined in prison, under the manage- 
ment of careful overseers, he will be free from the " trou- 
bles " that have perplexed him, and the cares and disturb- 
ing influences that have enraged him. Many, in the 
place where he has lived, will hope that he may spend his 
days within that place of safety. They will dread to have 
him let loose again, to mingle unrestrained in the tumul- 
tuous affairs of the world. They will fear his sudden 
passions, but more than all, an outbreak of some long 
cheiished reuenge. 

His friends and kindred will be relieved from their con- 
stant anxiety on his account. They will know that his 
condition, though by no means desirable, will be compari- 
tively free from danger, and they will bow submissive lo 
the stern decree that has assigned him a place, for life, 
within the walls of a prison. Though a companion of 
rogues, he is not a hardened villian, and will be under a 
discipline best suited to the peculiar construction of his 
mind. He will be made to labor without disturbance, 
and to earn his livelihood without the cares and perplexi- 
ties incident to the common affairs of life. He will be 
placed under moral and religious instruction, unaffected 
by the vicious influences that surround the life of mart in 
the busy world. His prison home may, therefore, be 
made subservient to the interests, both of himself, his 
friends, and the community at large. There we leave 
him. 



MORAL REFLECTIONS ADDED BY THE 
PUBLISHER. 

The foregoing history of Milton W. Streeter should 
teach the reader a useful lesson. It should teach him to 
put a guard upon his animal passions, to keep them under 
subjection to his moral faculties. There is no person, how- 
ever exalted his intellect, who does not need to have his 
mind moulded, and chastened by the high and ennobling 
principles of the Christian Religion, in order that he may 
pass through the journey of life with honor to himself,and be 
a blessing to his race. Had Milton Streeter, in his early 
life, cordially embraced thedoctrinesof the Bible, and been 
guided by its precepts, he might now have breathed the pure 
air of heaven, enjoyed the blessings of society, and his soul 
been unstained by the awful crime of murder. But 
he had no taste for reading, no respect for the Christian 
doctrines and precepts, and no relish for the ordinances of 
moral and religious instruction. He disregarded eveo 
ihe paternal precept and example, that would have called 
^im often to the house of prayer, and made him a con- 
itant attendant there, and a devout worshiper of the living 
God. He was a reckless sabbath-breaker ; he chose on 
that day usually to mingle with the vicious and the vuJgar. 
He preferred the intercourse of such, to the society of 
those who feared God and conversed on holy and divine 
things. His father is a good man — a Christian in life and 
practice. Earnestly did he desire, and often did he ad- 
monish, his intractable son to forsake the companionship 
of such loose and licentious characters, and associate with 
men of better principles ; often did he entreat him to ob- 
serve the Sabbath and be governed by the precepts of re- 
ligion. But all these entreaties were distasteful, and fell 
upon unlistening ears. A singular fatality rested over the 
aofortuuate young man. He seemed incapable of appre- 



96 

elating the blessings of a Christian life. Dark and unhai 
lowed passions governed his spirit; and the result was, 
that he imbrued his hands in the life's blood of his wife, 
and thus violently outraged the mo<t endearing rela- 
tions of life. Reader, look at it. What a tragic scene r 
Streeter had made his addresses to a young and beau- 
tiful female by the name of Elvira W. Houghton. She 
listened to his story of love, which came from his im- 
passioned heart. He sought her hand and heart, and 
was accepted. The marriage ceremony was perform- 
ed, and they became one. The solemn obligation to 
protect her through the varied scenes of life, he had 
taken : but how well did he keep it? In thirteen short 
months from the time that they were united in the 
bonds of matrimony, she was slain by his wicked hands, 
and thus by his agency she had to exchange the bridal 
satin for her winding sheet, and what was the procuring 
cause of all this? — jealousy! Streeter was of a jealous dis- 
position, and instead of guarding against that wicked- 
ness, he fostered the dark passion, and soon after he was 
married, it (jealousy,) took possession of his heart, 
and like the internal fires of Vesuvius, it continued to 
rankle and fester there, until it spent its force in the atro- 
cious murder of his wife. All may not be troubled with 
this weakness, (jealousy,) as was Milton Streeter, but most 
men have besetting sins, hard to be overcome, and if cher- 
ished, these will unavoidably lead their victims into seriou9 
difficulty, for the "way of the trangressor is hard," but by 7 
firm reliance on the Divine Being, and a strict aHherenci 
to his law there is safety; to which I commend the reader, 
and ask him to look to that source to overcome his imper- 
fections, and to be delivered from the thraldom and power 
of his sinful inclinations. 



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